Meditations on an unpacked suitcase

Starting to pack my suitcase for Edinburgh, I was suddenly hit by the realisation of my complete inability to fold shirts. Which, I thought, is not a great loss, since I don't know how to iron shirts either, so I don't have that much to lose by not folding them properly. Which, I then thought, is not a problem either, since I have a joke in my set about my inability to iron shirts, which wouldn't be credible if during the show I wore a perfectly ironed and folded shirt. So, I wondered, am I writing my jokes and then adapting my life to suit them? Of course it's more likely to be the other way round, I'm using as a source of comic material those aspects of my life in which, how to say that, the surface of my sometimes irritating perfection shows some utterly human and ultimately endearing cracks. But does this mean that I'm now condemning myself to never fill these cracks? Is this a Faustian pact where I accept the damnation of being laughable in exchange of the power to be funny? Is comedy the ultimate form of self-indulgence? And how many socks for two weeks?