One of the things I love about Carole is her love of tissues.
Or, more correctly, her love of stuffing tissues all over the place. Down the side of the couch, in the door panels of the car, under pillows, up sleeves, in pockets, in bags, out of bags… anywhere.
And one of the things I love about me is that I never check her pockets for tissues when I put her work trousers in the wash. I don’t need to check them for money because she never carries cash with her – much like the Queen – and also because any money she does have she leaves in small piles around the house. Like a rubbish dragon, guarding a pile of treasure.
Now, I don’t know what tissues I encountered today, but I got very lucky. There’s nothing worse than opening the washing machine door to find the insides looking like a snow globe, bits of shredded tissue everywhere.
Today was not like that. There was a tissue wet and balled up, near the door or the washer.
I removed it, praising the washing machine gods as I did so for their kindness in maintaining the structural integrity of said item.
I threw it away.
I know I threw it away. Into a bag it went.
Imagine my surprise, then, when in the basket I discover – as I am hanging up the washing – another tissue. Again, I throw it away and whisper a silent thanks to the gods because I was really upping the ante in this wash.
And then there was another one.
She only has two pockets.
I know I should have checked them, but I can’t help thinking that the universe was really conspiring against me with this one.
But I am still thankful they all stayed intact. My mind can only begin to imagine the absolute nightmare that three destroyed tissues in a wash could bring. Shaking small bits of paper out of clothes for months to come.
This is my life now.
Being an adult, thinking of the consequences of shoddy tissue management.
I hate responsibilities.