The funny thing about domestic disagreements is the trivial differences that spark them (it's the trviality that makes them "domestic", I guess). The husband, example, cannot bear books piled up on the kitchen table, whereas I cannot bear them piled on the Welsh dresser (my view is that tables were made to carry books, but the welsh dresser should be kept for the crockery -- his, I guess, is the reverse).
Similarly with washing lines. He can't bear the paraphernalia of washing lines and other such contraptions outside, nor the fuss of dashing out to get the damn stuff in when the heavens open. I, on the other hand, think wet washing drying (or better trying to dry) on fearful contraptions inside is reminiscent of the seedy student quarters that I am pleased to have left behind. Besides, there always seems something heathier and generally more wholesome about having some sun and air on the smalls.
So while the cat was away (lecturing on a cruise), and partly prompted by finding a vast old bag of pegs at the bottom of a pile of rubbish in the pantry, the mouse and daughter (who is at home putting the finishing touches to her PhD) decided to investigate the washing line options.