I missed an opportunity today to get a few loads of washing out on the line. The weather’s weird at the moment, isn’t it? It looks grey and dank and cold in the morning and so you assume Autumn is here and slip into your faithful tatty old boots and pop a body warmer over the top of what you’re wearing and then find yourself, half way around Canon Hill Park, on the slightly-sweaty-upper-lip side of flushed fearing that you’re about to develop patches.
Today started in equally unpromising fashion and so I didn’t rush to get a couple of washes through and out onto the line. I just pegged out the one load I put through last night and DAMIT it was good drying weather today! Warm and windy. I take real satisfaction nowadays in getting two or more loads of washing out onto the line – think of the electricity saved! The good I have done for the planet! And OOOOOOOO doesn’t washing dried in the open air smell DIVINE?!
Throughout my childhood my lovely Mum would always make a point of telling me when my bed had been made (SPOILT BRAT that I am, I didn’t make my own bed until I went to University) with air-dried linen. ‘Doesn’t it smell wonderful?’ she would murmur rapturously into the ironing, and I would nod in agreement all the while thinking she was a bit bonkers.
Now though it is a TOTALLY different story because bugger-me but air dried washing smells so bloody good! YOU WERE RIGHT MA! Poor James will stagger through the door at gone 10pm and I’ll be waiting, washing basket in hand, under the pretence of needing some help to put everything out to finish airing on the gigantic, dinosaur sized airers that you just seem to acquire once you have children, all ready to shriek DOESN’T IT SMELL WONDERFUL and be all SMUG and SATISFIED because I got THREE *fist pump* loads of washing out onto the line before 10am and the whole upper floor is now draped with it whilst it gives off its fresh clean scent.
And so here is one of life’s small triumphs – seeing your washing pegged to your inherited Brabantia (had to drop the brand like an ARSE) washing line, whipping round in the breeze whilst you stand in the Conservatory sipping tepid tea, congratulating yourself about how delicious it will smell later. Albeit tempered by minor cursing at yourself for the fact that, if only you were organised, you could have got the towels out and drying too and they would have not only smelt exquisite, they’d have had that delightful crunch that only air-dried freshly laundered towels have. I am bonkers.
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