AS someone who can just about remember the Apollo 11 moon landing, this week's depositing of a space probe on a comet has been cause for similar excitement.

In the decades since Neil Armstrong first faltering steps on the lunar surface, and the well rehearsed uttering of the first soundbite in space, any project involving trips to other planets, or exploration of the furthest reaches of our galaxy and beyond, has triggered my interest, along with a deep sense of mystery.

May be it is because I spectacularly failed to grasp the intricacies of physics, indeed of any of the other sciences, and of maths whilst at school and subsequently, but such achievements always leave me feeling awed.

As I understand it in layman's terms, the European Space Agency's Rosetta project has achieved the equivalent of landing a very expensive and sophisticated full stop on the head of a primeval pin 317 million miles away, thus providing its team of boffins - through the carrying out of onboard experiments and the relaying of data - with the opportunity to develop potential new theories about the very beginnings of life, the universe, and everything.

It has so far been an incredible achievement and I can only ascribe my albeit simple understanding of what it potentially means, to the Rosetta team's admirable determination to tell the world in as simple but meaningful a way as possible what they are doing and why they are doing it.

As with any momentous achievement however, arguments have been provoked - and in our house, it has not been about the science.

Lady Weekender and I are united in our embarrassing ignorance of the deeper scientific detail. We just cannot get our heads around it. But we have fallen out spectacularly over sartorial elegance.

The subject of our disagreement is the perennially dishevelled Dr Matt Taylor, Rosetta Project Scientist and, it seems safe to assume, a man who for all his genius has never troubled the aisles of a smart gentlemen's outfitters in his life.

Garish beach-style shirts, t-shirts bearing the grisly name and logo of a well-established death metal band, frankly horrible Rosetta Project-related tattoos - all have been displayed during television and print media interviews this week by this undoubtedly key member of the team.

The interview that triggered our familial discord however, featured Dr Taylor in a scruffy-looking hoodie and cargo shorts, an outfit that looked - though this admittedly may not have been the case - as if it had been worn for at least three days straight.

Dr Taylor has proved an extremely capable translator into everyday language when it comes to explaining the mission of which he has been so integral a part.

However, call me old-fashioned (and I have been called much worse, as the following exchange will attempt to convey), but like those dapper NASA chaps of old, I like my scientists to be neat and tidy, wearing a shirt and tie, and attempting to add an air of gravitas to the occasion.

As Shakespeare, and later Mark Twain contended, clothes maketh the man, and we are after all talking about exploring the potential origins of the universe here.

I attempted to explain my stance to Lady Weekender as the BBC Newsnight camera panned away to enable Dr Taylor to hitch up his shorts and reveal his latest Rosetta tattoo to the nation.

"Don't be so flaming ridiculous," retorted Lady Weekender. I must point out that 'flaming' is a modification for a family audience of the actual word used.

I was a little taken aback, but soldiered on, pointing out not unreasonably that if, whilst in the employ of this newspaper, I turned up at court to report on a case wearing a replica football top and cut-off jeans, I would hauled over the coals by the judge and my bosses.

"What ARE you waffling on about?" she replied, scorn barely disguised.

"I can't take him entirely seriously, and this is entirely serious stuff," I said.

"You're talking rubbish."

"Well if I dressed like that for a wedding, you'd have plenty to say about it."

"What... what? Please be quiet."

"He should be wearing a suit and tie."

"You never wear a suit."

"I do occasionally, and anyway he should at least make an effort to look neat."

"Oh, do shut UP!"

By now Dr Taylor had disappeared from the screen and, the air heavy with ridicule, I retired to bed to ponder my unfathomably insignificant (however well turned out I may be) place in our ever-expanding universe.

Ever-expanding that is, until the scientists discover otherwise. And if the Rosetta Project's findings from this incredible adventure to the grandly-named comet 67P/Churyumov–Gerasimenko lead to a conclusion that how we came to be here is not as we currently believe, I expect a more soberly attired Dr Taylor to lead the explanations.

Sadly however, I suspect a trip to a decent tailor's may prove more taxing for him than a journey into the deepest reaches of of space.