|Don't worry, I buried the undies for you|
Do some washing you're thinking. Like that hasn't crossed my mind. Sadly, because I have been brought up in line with the 'tumble dryers are for the rich and famous' school of thought, my washing gets pegged out on the line. And have you seen the weather?
So, I am again left scattering beach towels and tiny baby socks and bedsheets and boxers shorts about my radiators, then HAVING TO TURN THE RADIATORS ON, even though it is the middle of June. I then walk around the house, sweating profusely in the clothes I am currently wearing, in order to dry the ones that I have just washed. While reckoning up that this month's central heating bill will ensure I must file for bankruptcy.
Under such circumstances, washing clothing is a slow process at the best of times. But when half your house is a building site, there's nothing down for you.
And this weekend I discovered, absolutely fantastically, the every bra I own is amongst that mountain of stink. And I do mean every bra. I've spent the last three days scraping around in the bottom of my underwear drawer for those last resorts that haven't seen the light of day for seven years.
I hit the rejects on Friday with a one cup size too small sports bra. With boob peeping over the top of the cup on each side, I wobbled my way through the day, secretly tucking in bulges, without any notable drama.
Saturday I went for a previously white number, which has clearly spent more than one or two cycles in the dark wash. It held stuff in the region of the right place, but I spent the day praying I would not get run over or be invited to join a burlesque troop.
Sunday I was down to the very last one. This fella was previously underwired. It was a bra which, one unremarkable, unsuspecting day, suddenly decided to attack its wearer, turning angrily on my armpit and piercing it repeatedly in some sort of aggressive maligned garment uprising. Refusing to be bullied by my own clothing, I had whipped out the protruding wire. Donning said defaced brassiere on Sunday, my lob sided appearance was undeniable, so I then had to butcher the lining a second time, in order to restore balance to my confused, mostly unsupported mammaries.
And now I've got none left. Yes, the washing machine is on, but the little maternal instinct I possess has conspired against me, forcing me to deposit a load of Boo's clothes into the drum over my own scruds. I am not a lady who is willing, or indeed able, to hang loose. So until later today, when I may in fact be in possession of clean lingerie, what scaffolding do assemble about my udders? I see three options.
1) Sniff my way through the washing basket and select the least whiffy bra?
2) Febreeze yesterday's?
3) Handwash one in the sink and wear it damp?
I went for secret option number four. A halterneck bikini top. Which might not have looked too terrible, if I hadn't had to wear it under my only clean item of outer wear. My wedding dress.
A frustratingly awkward combo when you've got lawns to mow.