The washing, oh the washing, how it irritates me so. Sitting there, proud and loud, in its holey basket, taunting me with its look of dishevelment and overload.

It always returns, getting bigger, way beyond my control. The basket’s mouth is never big enough, constantly looking like a game of chubby bunnies as socks and knickers overflow its lips. Why oh why doesn’t it end? Either dirty in one box or clean in another, never quite making it to the rightful home of a drawer or a hanger. The house would be happier without it on display, or so they say. If I was on top of it, life would be in order, or so they say. I’ve always hated it, but recently I’ve adopted a new strategy. I gave in.

By admitting defeat and bowing to its will, its never ending autonomy, there’s no denying it adds a certain charm to my life. To my bedroom and the end of my kitchen as it hangs, airing itself. Its messy presence is a sign of a life well lived. After all, I can’t have it all together all the time, can I?

So whether the washing is dirty, clean, spinning around the washer or by some miracle, is folded in a drawer, I’ll be smiling. There’s nothing more satisfying than knowing you can leave it for another day.