I have an endless and thankless lifecycle: being worn, being washed, being dried, being ironed (if you’re particular) and being put away before being got out again and worn again and so on. It doesn’t matter what else is going on in your life, I need to be dealt with otherwise people start running out of socks or have to wear their least favourite pants and blame you for it.
I hang around in piles around the house. In the unwashed pile, in the half-clean-half-dirty-undecided pile, in the forgotten-about-and-left-in-the-drier pile, in waiting-at-the-bottom-of-the-stairs pile, in the bedroom floor pile, in the precariously-stacked-almost-toppling-over-waiting-to-be-ironed pile. Sometimes I’m in the ironed-but-left-on-a-chair-and-then-cat-took-a-nap-on-it pile which then needs washing and ironing again. Sometimes I hang on the line outside dripping wet because it rained when the weather forecast said it wouldn’t.
You hate it when you leave a tissue in a pocket in a wash. You hate it when a blue top gets into the white wash and dyes everything grey. You hate it when something wool or dry clean only and expensive ends up in the wash and shrinks.
I’m never ending. You want to be rid of me forever. You want to be rich and famous so you have staff to deal with me. You cry out for someone to invent disposable clothes but worry they might be made out of polythene and look crap but then decide that would be a small sacrifice for not having to deal with me.
Sometimes you try to console yourself that you’re lucky. That years ago I had to be washed by hand, squeezed through a mangle and then hung around the only source of heat in the house. At least you didn’t live then, eh?
But what bugs you the most is that to some people I’m magic. Oh yes. I somehow teleport from my dirty laundry basket into their drawers and wardrobes and get cleaned and ironed and folded in the process. And they don’t even notice. Don’t even give a thought to how a clean pair of trousers got there.
The scourge of some people’s lives and invisible to others. With a fairly prominent male/female divide (although not exclusively). That’s me. The laundry.