Sunday is generally wash day in our house.
For some reason the phrase ‘wash day’ conjures images of a band of ‘washer women’ from the late 19th century, all gathered around large tubs, twisting and pressing large wooden ‘dollies’ and rubbing colourless garments against large washboards.
Sadly wash day in the 21st century Hitchings household is far less nostalgic, and requires significantly less effort. The three standard loads (whites, brights and darks) were today rather quickly processed due to the family coming round for a Sunday roast.
Whether I rush this job through, or take my time to think about it, it always comes with three regularly encountered occupational hazards:
The special laundry bags for delicates and bras will almost certainly open up, releasing said garments into the main wash, and spectacularly failing in their primary purpose
A blouse or two will somehow become tangled, and appear from the washer more like a game of cats cradle than an item of clothing
There are always at least two odd socks.
And what is it about socks when it comes to a clean laundry pile?
I don’t think I have ever picked up a sock and found its partner straight away. I can literally almost empty the basket of socks before I seem to be able to make a matching pair - if this was a game of snap, I would lose every time.
I’m sure this is something to do with the law of averages, and one day I’ll have a load of laundry where every sock that comes out forms a matching pair.
Of course this is one of those ridiculously small innate concerns that has no effect on any real life issues. It does make me realise, however, that I have to be pretty lucky in life to bother myself with such trivia.
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