This morning we washed a sleeping bag. Don’t ask. OK then, one of our teenage children has been sleeping in it, rather than in sheets, for months and months. Straight in the hot wash. We stand shoulder to shoulder with Extinction Rebellion (so long as they do not disrupt our flights to Valencia, to Naples, to the States). But as they themselves no doubt would say, ‘Desperate times require desperate measures’. For them, that means annoying cockneys flying to Ibiza. For us, it’s balls to 30 degrees. In you go at a hundred. The planet will have to either cope or go dusty and silent, unloved. The twin turbo of the washing machine and the dishwasher rumbling set us off. (We have a new review coming soon, on dishwasher. It’s an Eletriq (!) P738q. It’s a joke of a dishwasher. An absolute fucking disgrace.)
We see, over caffinated, we are over fond of the brackets this morning.
With the satisfying murrs of the machinery we thought ‘what else?’ We decided, for the first time in weeks, in months, in – yes – years, to mop. Our hands twisted around the mop. Gnarled they may be, but they retained memory. A craftsman picking up a chisel after a hundred years. A knight unsheathing a rusty sword. Hmm. That one sounds a bit sexual. We searched for a cleaning product. We thought we had none, it had all gone in the years we had given up. Then we found it; a half bottle of Zoflora hidden behind the sink in the downstairs bathroom (toilet (sorry about that bracket)). We added it to hot water, breathed in the aroma, and, as we killed 99.9% of bacteria in our house, we began to live again. The washing machine finished with a delightful song, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TzBtQD3-f18 We opened it up, saw the persistence of the other .1% of the germs, dwelling in the sleeping bag, and shoved the bastard on again. Extinction be dammed, love is everything