I am, of course, pretty fussy about my washing – it has to be hung out properly, pleasing to the eye, no dissenting darks in the middle of the whites, although modest stripes are acceptable. The washing in this painting by my friend James passes muster.
My washing fascism does allow coloureds on the line, preferably co-ordinated. I used to have a peg bag, made from some second- hand fabric found in a ragbag, gaudy, spotted handkerchiefs - red and yellow and orange - hanging on a clothesline. It was so much admired by my sister-in-law Karla that I had to let her have it. She told me later that it had inspired her to learn fabric design. You can see one of her much laundered tea towels here with my Mother’s Day new blue teapot (with non-matching grey jug -is there colour blindness in the family?).
But my obsession stops once the washing is done. Ironing is rarely done in this house I relent occasionally, but only in the most exceptional circumstances, weddings, funerals, job interviews. Karla’s pressed shirt wrapping paper is lovely, but pure fantasy as far as I am concerned…
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