There’s something about having to go around your garden collecting your mum’s underwear from bushes that probably shouldn’t be experienced by a child. It’s not something I ever thought I’d be doing. And yet there I was, this morning, doing just that.
Obviously while mum is in hospital, trying to make cups of coffee and toast safely so she won’t die at home and can avoid any kind of visiting enabler, we are solely responsible for all her laundry needs.
It hasn’t gone swimmingly, I’ll be honest.
Thanks to a lackadaisical “just chuck everything in” from me, we ended up turning a lot of clothes blue. Or slightly blue. Or so it looks like, in the case of a nightie, that she has gone to sleep with a fountain pen in her hand. So there has been issues.
But we’re better now. We’re on top of it. We are well oiled washing machines. So to speak. I mean, we have none of our own clothes washes because we’re too busy washing mum’s stuff – hospitals are not massive fans of wearing things more than once, it appears.
And then when we do wash stuff and put it on an airer, out in the glorious sunshine the bloody wind blows the airer over and scatters pants to the four winds.
Having to say to your mum, who has enough trouble keeping both legs out of one leg hole, that she might have to shake the grit out of her knickers before she puts them on isn’t filling her with confidence in our abilities.
I think she mainly wants to get out of hospital to take back control of her washing.