making the bed

I get in trouble for my bloke attitude towards making the bed. I get up, I leave the bedroom and return usually when it is time to go to bed again. Making the bed serves no purpose. I don't like to be tucked in snuggly, so I doubly don't see the point in bed making. Sally hates the bed to be left unmade. Presumably it would upset the no-one who sees it each day. Rewind to yesterday night. I headed to bed earlier than Sal (Grey's Anatomy does not do it for me) and as I pulled the covers back I was greeted by the sight of a damn great dirt patch. It seems that when I'd left early in the morning to head for my dive Sal had invited Rumpole in to act as a her hot-water-dog. Not too happy about that, but what can you do. But how the bloody hell can you get up and make the bed and not notice a 2ft wide patch of dirt on the otherwise white sheets? Mind still boggling. I leave the bed unmade and have my arse chewed off; yet she can shovel - or rather hound - 2 tonne of our garden into the marital bed and all is well...as long as the bed is made.