5 Aug 2013
I’m a very spoilt girl this summer. This time I went with the whole family: kids, Fireman and step-daughter. We hired a villa with a pool and spent the week lazily splashing around, with a bit of sightseeing and tub loads of ice cream. We had a fabulous, sunny time, full of giggles and mischief (and I was particularly smug since it was timed for when the weather in London turned rainy. Sorry).
Home at last, brown-faced and happily tired, we sat around with cups of tea chattering about our favourite parts of the holiday, before I sent them all upstairs to unpack. And then it happened.
Slowly, quietly, like stealth marines crawling on their bellies, heaps of stuff crept and slid from cases and bedrooms and made their collective way to the top of the stairs. Somewhere under the ever-growing mountain, I was told with big-eyed seriousness by my six year old boy, was the washing basket; although that may be an urban myth, since it is now so deeply buried we have almost forgotten what it looks like.
I swear in the time it took me to unzip my suitcase more washing appeared than items had been taken on holiday in the first place. I’m not even kidding. I am cramming stuff into the machine that I would swear on my grandmother’s life I have never seen before. Within the hour there were at least five machine loads and I’m pretty sure if I look carefully half the stuff they unpacked will be shoved in the nearest drawer, still dirty.
HOW DOES THIS HAPPEN? Is the hold of an aircraft the perfect breeding ground for wet towels? Has some other family infiltrated my luggage allowance and duped me into cleansing their belongings? It just beggars belief. In the last twelve hours I have washed more outfits than Sarah Jessica Parker’s wardrobe assistant. Oh GOD how I need a wardrobe assistant. Although frankly right now I’d settle for an extra washing machine.
