I bloody hate washing.
It is, I swear, an organic matter, growing faster than a hedge of leylandii, over which I will never, ever, win.
No matter how much I tend to it, and clear, wash, dry, iron, and put it away, there is always EVEN MORE.
But today I have played a Really Fun Game. To eleviate the Monotony, as it were.
I have counted how much of our latest washing pile belongs to me.
Here is the list.
Three pair of pants. (knickers to those who say knickers. Pants to the rest of you)
Three pair of socks.
One pair of jeans.
Not too bad really, after nearly five days away. Had managed a wash half way through week.
Twelve pairs of boxer shorts.
Eight pairs of socks.
Five pairs of trousers.
A woolly jumper.
One large roll neck shirt.
(Yes, handkerchiefs. Large spotted things that he blows his nose on, over and over.)
And did I mention the children's clothes?
Imagine Everest. Pants and shirts and trousers and jumpers and socks and pyjamas and the odd coat. Piled high. Sod the Himalayas. Ranulph Fiennes should just come here to West Sussex and climb my chuffing Washing Pile. We could get News Night to cover it.
(By the way, did you know that Ranulph Fiennes' real name is Sir Ranulph Twisleton-Wickham-Fiennes! What a fab name. I want one like that...)
Washing that lot will take an Age.
Think of me. Welded to that horrible iron thing, flattening the equivalent of several acres of clothes.
Should just get Steam Roller and be done with it. Put all the bastard clothes on the floor and drive all over them.
Much more Fun.
But No. Must keep Up the Standards. Will Fold, surreptitiously, all the clothes that can be folded without anyone noticing. And put them away quickly into drawers. And will then iron the tops of anything that can just be ironed on the top, without anyone noticing. And will then be seen to be ironing all the rest Extremely Well. So that I look like Model Housewife, when am in fact a Slut.
See you when I'm done!