Two weeks on (and it feels like two weeks and it doesn't), I had enough of a stretch of time in my house to think at last about washing the uniforms prior to their return.

So I snatched them out of the suitcase in which they'd been sitting these past days, pre gym class, and hurled them into the washing machine.

But not before noticing that Eros clearly sweated less than the others as her army badge is pristine (now snip snipped off). (The others are blurring round the sweaty edges.)

Dolabella must have little legs as his trousers were carefully turned up.

And recollecting the continual vying between Antony and Enobarbus to see whose sleeves could be rolled the highest in the name of looking cool.

(The winner varied, nightly.)

The soggy combats are now ranged across my washing line out the back. Goodness knows what the neighbours think.

I wish I could acquire a pack of men from somewhere, dress them in the clean uniforms and send them noisily on their way, spitting, stamping, swearing, listening to noisy violent rap music and generally drawing the neighbours out to look as they spilled out of my flat into the weatherly uncertain day. Just for effect, you understand.

But then I'd have to wash them all over again. So it's probably for the best.

Unless you're reading this, Jake Gyllenhaal.

In which case, I'm ready.