My Husband, the Launderer

The Greek God(zilla) did the laundry last night. I KNOW! I should be happy, right? After all, I have been complaining ever since I started working from home that my husband has seemed to forget where the kitchen even is. But it actually made me feel pretty cross. Not because I have secretly grown to love sorting delicates from cottons and red socks from white. Nor, because I particularly enjoy pulling all the wet clothes out of the machine and hanging them out efficiently on the airer. Or even because he was denying me the thrill of watching the clothes dry, while an endless conveyor belt of socks backs up in a damp heap at the bottom of a plastic laundry bag. Or, the satisfaction of folding clean t-shirts and transporting them upstairs to the ironing pile, where they are placed to rest until they are either requested to be worn again, or forgotten about entirely.

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