Last week’s wash is still hanging on the dryer. I’ve been avoiding putting it away for days, rushing ahead with other chores like cooking, for once. I’ve enjoyed the unfamiliar tastes of the week, for all my efforts, and my friends know what a challenge it is for me to cook well.
But the Laundry is watching on unimpressed. Every morning I have to squeeze past it to open my bedroom curtain windows. I’ve stubbed my toes on the drying rack at least four times this week. Reaching the window on the left is particularly awkward, as I try to sneak past a long-unplayed guitar on its stand. I brush its strings, trying not to awaken it each day, letting it sleep on for now in the darkness of these early winter mornings. The Laundry stands immobile, witnessing my avoidance and procrastination with quiet amusement. It likes it out here, taking in the rhythm of the week, participating in my daily life. Much better than imprisoned in drawers and cupboards.
There’s more washing to do, but I’ve nowhere to put it. I’ve been taking clothing straight off the hanger all week, but it will probably only be the arrival of a new fresh set of wet that will force me to wrestle the dry laundry back into my collapsing chest of drawers. Of course I won’t iron it!
[Ed: note. Writing in the UK, my ‘dryer’ is a plastic coated metal A frame rack which I use to hang clothes on as I let them airdry. I don’t have a drying machine, and have US friends who look at me strangely wondering why we do laundry like this! I often wonder myself.]