What is it about laundry and ironing? Where does that pile of clothes come from? I mean, I'm a single guy. There is no way I got through that many shirts in a week. Half of them I don't even remember wearing.
I suspect the little buggers sneak out of the wardrobe while I'm asleep and go and play in the washing machine. They probably regard it as some sort of thrill ride; to them it isn't a mere Zanussi Washer/Dryer. Oh no. To them its the Wall Of Death. They probably round off the night by kidnapping a solitary sock and holding it for ransom in exchange for some new detergent. It would explain a lot.
Maybe I need to train one of the mice to sell tickets.
I wonder how they switch the machine on?
I'm in that brief and slightly uncomfortable period of nothingness before a first-date and before a holiday. Tonight I have to negotiate one of Surrey's more tortuous one-way systems and on Thursday the bear and I fly to Geneva. Both present significant challenges and represent the unknown.
In the meantime, go and buy this chap's book - a better definition of Englishness you won't find anywhere else.
