I’ve had a proper epiphany today. For years, I have been using a watering can like an absolute lunatic. I would unclip the rose—that little nozzle thingy meant to turn a torrent of water into a gentle shower—and then, predictably, I would lose it. Usually somewhere deep inside a stinging thicket of nettles.

But today, I actually looked at the side of the can and noticed a small, plastic knob. A stub. A tiny protrusion that looked like it had no purpose in life whatsoever. It turns out you are supposed to hang the rose on it. That is it. That is the entire, genius-level design. It sits there, waiting, like a very bored butler, ensuring that when you need to switch from a full-blown, biblical deluge to a light mist, you don’t have to crawl through the mud searching for a piece of perforated plastic.

It is brilliant. It is elegant. It is arguably the most useful piece of design since the invention of the wheelbarrow. And yet, for years, I have been wandering around my garden like a confused badger, wondering where the bloody rose went.

Tell me, am I the only one who missed this, or does everyone else actually use this feature?