I have a friend who curates her wardrobe pretty carefully – there’s nothing in it she doesn’t wear – and consequently she gives, sells or lends me a lot of things, and her taste is nonpareil so I never say no. Maybe one item in 10 is white, which unleashes dismay: she has to watch while I stain a pair of cream jeans she has kept pristine for five years, as fast as you can say, “Ooh, what’s this delicious salad dressing?”

Once, I splashed mud all the way up the back of a skirt she’d given me while she was cycling behind me, saying, “We’ve really got to get you some mudguards if you want to wear white.” Once, I got Tabasco sauce on her white bra, which was fine because who would see it? And yet, not fine, because how do you get sauce on your bra? Once, I spilled espresso down a white shirt, and that ain’t never coming out – but it actually wasn’t hers, it was her mother’s, so I’d trashed three decades of spotlessness in a moment.

Once, I was wearing another of her white shirts, and my sister said: “Where did you get that? It looks expensive.” I said: “Yes, I think it was expensive originally, but the resale price was more than fair.” And she said: “You’re going to get something on it – why not spare yourself the misery and give it straight to me?”

Once, I only remembered that you don’t wear white jeans to a festival when I was already at the festival. And many more times than once, I’ve leaked vape juice into my pocket; theoretically it’s colourless but in reality it’s a category A stain event.

My friend just has to watch this unfold, knowing that some people are simply not built to wear white, powerless to come between me and mishap. I wish I could find some low-key way to apologise.

Zoe Williams is a Guardian columnist