Pride, they say, comes before a fall.
Buoyed by the success of yesterday’s military operation to wash a pillow and get it back on the bed within the same day, we set the wheels in motion for another one today.
Carole set it going before she left for work, and I got up to hang it outside.
That, right there, is the end of where things went right. We peaked at me getting up to hang it out.
Unlike yesterday, this pillow had – despite carrying all the same washing label symbols as yesterday’s – absorbed all the water in the known universe and weighed probably as much as a small planet. It was heavy. Very, very heavy. Too heavy for the washing machine to spin. Too heavy for me to move around to much.
It had also ballooned in size. Somehow a damp pillow becomes airtight. I guess somewhere in the same vein as when Bear Grylls has you tie your trouser legs together to make a floatation device. It filled with air, and water-sodden filling, and swelled to enormous size.
The washing machine had to birth it. More or less. With gallons of “afterbirth” spilling from it as it hit the floor.
I spent over half an hour squeezing the water out of it in the sink. Putting my full weight on it and really going to town. It was too heavy to hang on the line, and almost too heavy for the airer I popped it on initially, when I thought, foolishly, the water would flood from it onto the patio.
It did not. It just stayed. Stayed until I juiced the living crap out of it.
It took a couple of hours to wash a pillow yesterday. Today it took the couple of hours of washing, plus an hour of failed drip-drying, at least thirty minutes of violent squeezing and a further forty minutes of spinning to get it the sort of level of damp you’d expect something that has been washed and spun to be at.
Sod it. No more pillow washing.
We’ll just buy new ones. Take that allergens.