I have admitted elsewhere (no. 46) that I don’t mind doing laundry. I’ve also claimed somewhere in the past that I would never blog about it. (Although I did).
But really, I spend an awful lot of my time at the clothesline. Pegging, unpegging, folding, sorting.
It’s meditation of a sort. A chance to snatch some fresh air and respite from others.
I used to get a warm fuzzy glow from the sight of a clothesline full of fluffy white nappies a-flapping in the sunshine. These days it’s school uniform, and lots of it. Also cricket whites (don’t forget the Sard), muddy socks and Mr Soup’s work clothes.
I still get a sense of satisfaction from a full clothesline. When you leave full time work to be at home with babies and children, your world shrinks. Feelings of achievement come from unexpected angles; small domestic goals met. Pride at feeding and clothing your little family for another day.
My mum has strict rules about the washing.
Socks must be pegged by the toe, so as not to spoil the cuffs.
I hear Mum’s voice as I rebelliously peg my socks from the tops.
I find I have my own rules about laundry.
Pegs must be wooden.
Either style. Just not plastic.
And baskets must be wicker.
Today’s a Good Drying Day, my mother would say and I hear her voice as I strip the sheets.
(Dame Washalot was one of my favourite characters in The Magic Faraway Tree).