Washaway blues

I don’t want this post to be about laundry.

On the other hand: writing about laundry is easier than doing something about it.

Reading about laundry is easier than doing something about it.

So stick with me.  I won’t be long.  It’s not a subject on which I like to dwell.

It’s the sheer endlessness of it.  It’s when you’ve a load of washing in the machine, the previous load waiting in a basket to be hung to dry when the load before that has dried; and you’re spending your precious begrudged brain processes on trying to figure out which door you can hang this sheet on; and there are piles of dry folded clothes waiting to be put away; and you know for a fact that some of these things will be back in the laundry basket at the start of the whole cycle within ten minutes of being put on one of your child’s not quite continent, mud attracting bodies.  There are dozens and dozens of other things you need to do and more interesting things you could be thinking about, but then you catch sight of that overflowing laundry basket and think; that too?

But then you get on with it.

There are pinterest boards dedicated to perfect laundry rooms; I succumb to dreams of utility rooms, shelving units, sub-divided baskets, airing cupboards.  A tumble dryer is on my birthday wish-list.  It’s not because I love laundry.  It’s because I have a hope that if I had the perfect system or the right machine; if I could impose order on chaos; the entire monumental task might in some way do itself.



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