I am always amazed by the never ending stream of filthy clothes in our house. One minute I’m gleefully throwing the last dubiously yellow pair of pants (not mine) into the machine and the next I’m throwing mounds of sodden face cloths and mud marinated jeans down the stairs to start the cycle of hell afresh. I would quite like to carry the clothes downstairs like a sane person but this is impossible when you also have 2 mugs, 5 glitter pens, an iPad, the rogue leg of a Barbie, a Paw Patrol keyring, an important school shoe, a rolling pin, 18 teaspoons and an angry toddler to carry.

It seems silly to get distraught about laundry. But I am distraught. Very distraught.

Not only am I the only one in our house who has mastered the complexities of using a washing machine, I am also the only one who knows the whereabouts of the elusive invisible laundry basket. Folklore has it that the laundry basket stands somewhere upstairs – my husband and children have yet to bear witness to its mythical presence.

One of these days I will throw the laundry basket at my husband. I will throw it at him then I’ll march out of the house and board a cruise ship bound for Malta. I’ll stand on the ship’s deck with a cocktail in one hand, my dry-cleaning receipt in the other, and shout, ‘Feck you, you filthy, anti-Fairy-Non-Bio fecker!! FECK YOU!’


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