I've got a nine month old daughter. I'm back at work. I've got no kitchen ceiling, plasterboard dust has settled on everything downstairs and I've got a blog to write. Is it any wonder my washing basket looks like this?
Don't worry, I buried the undies for you
Do some washing you're thinking. Like that hasn't crossed my mind. Sadly, because I have been brought up in line with the 'tumble dryers are for the rich and famous' school of thought, my washing gets pegged out on the line. And have you seen the weather?
So, I am again left scattering beach towels and tiny baby socks and bedsheets and boxers shorts about my radiators, then HAVING TO TURN THE RADIATORS ON, even though it is the middle of June. I then walk around the house, sweating profusely in the clothes I am currently wearing, in order to dry the ones that I have just washed. While reckoning up that this month's central heating bill will ensure I must file for bankruptcy.
Under such circumstances, washing clothing is a slow process at the best of times. But when half your house is a building site, there's nothing down for you.
And this weekend I discovered, absolutely fantastically, the every bra I own is amongst that mountain of stink. And I do mean every bra. I've spent the last three days scraping around in the bottom of my underwear drawer for those last resorts that haven't seen the light of day for seven years.
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