Domesticity II

I was 30 before I bought my own washing machine.  I spent most of my 20s without a washing machine, and as soon as I bought one, I rejoiced in it.  Free at last from the tyranny of the laundromat!

Doing the washing is the one domestic task that I can almost effortlessly engage in.  This fetish presents as a sub-clinical obsessive-compulsive disorder whenever I travel. 

One thing I like is that, at home at least, washing is connected ever so slightly to the natural phases of suitable drying weather.  That gives it something archaic, despite the occasional resort to elaborate constructions of clothes over the dimplex heater.

I have read somewhere that laundry is the one domestic task in industrialized countries  for which work has, on average, been “insourced” to the home in the course of the twentieth century.  Doubtless the principal cause of this is the improvements in domestic plumbing, but the washing machine must come close behind.

My present washing-machine is my second.  It is mechanically sound, but suffers from severe rust in its body work which I now regret not complaining about earlier when that first appeared.  I will have to buy a new one soonish.  When I bought my present machine, I converted from the top-loader to the front-loader. My faith in this regard holds.  The one thing I will look for in the next machine  is the fastest possible spin cycle.

Now, if you will excuse me, I have the final instalment of Saturday’s coloured and white washes to put away.

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