This is the first summer I've had a washing line, not even since the days of my mother's whirligig. It stretches from a grey pole at the front of the garden to the fence at the back. This line has become my domestic guru. Everything slows down pegging up the knickers and socks. There are wooden pegs and pink pegs and blue pegs. I use two pegs for shirts. Three for bed sheets. One for bras. There's something undeniably satisfying when the washing dries under half an hour on a hot, dry, windy day. Then, the smell of air dried, sun-kissed, 'amongst the flowers' conditioned clothes. Perfect.