Mrs Tiggywinkle

It's good drying weather n'est pas? For washing I mean. The washing and drying of clothes to be perfectly clear. The washing machine exerts a sort of hypnotic effect on me, when it's on that is, and going round.  I find myself watching it and the clothes therein going round and round, and admiring its ability to move things from the front to the back just by going round and round and round and round ...
And isn't it funny that the load gets smaller the wetter it gets. Things shoe-horned in with a foot, suddenly have space at the top. Most things get bigger with water added but not clothes, perhaps it's the lack of air, or the water pressure, or some physics that Vicus will explain.

Just now as I watched the jolly clever machine in action, I thought about my mother's twin-tub.  Most people of my great age, and who lived south of the Watford Gap will surely have been brought up with a Hotpoint (I think) Twin-Tub. North of the gap I imagine it was a river bank, with a washboard or even rocks, probably still is. (Do not judge me harshly for that comment, my family hailed from Macclesfield so I know that of which I speak). Anyway it had a circular thingy that I imagine the powder went in, on the top of the thingy that swished back and forth in the water to wash the clothes. When washing was being done it had a very distinctive smell of washing powder and hot rubber and the round thinging always seemed to be full of fluff, (thinks), actually perhaps it was a filter.

Then, after a time determined by the washer-woman (my Mum) the clothes would be lifted out with an enormous pair of wooden tweezers and deposited in the spindryer, which was round and not square like the washing bit. This was in itself a fascinating procedure (for those of us with a washine machine fixation) that involved placing a little rubber doiley on top before sliding across the upside-down-glass-bowl shaped lid and waiting for take off. The machine would then dance around the kitchen vibrating the hell out of the house until the hose, hooked into the sink, ran dry. After that it was pegging out stuff which held no interest to me until I was much, much older and my OCD set in. Then I had to be in sole charge of pegging-out because otherwise it just isn't done right. How CAN people peg out socks not n pairs, it just isn't right.

My Granny, the one from Macclesfield, was obviously late to the joys of twin-tubs having only moved south in her mid-forties.  She never got the hang of the spin dryer and would leave it going for several weeks until all clothes were 7 feet long and 2 inches wide.  It became so embarrassing to see her out in the hours of daylight in this strange distorted apparel, that when I started work I bought her an automatic washing machine which spoilt all her fun, but started my endless fascination with watching clothes go round and round and rou ...

Oh the embarrassment ...

Back in he days when I had a rich husband, if he had been particularly nasty I would take my revenge by buying very expensive things. Spite shopping I called it and it's why in my now impoverished state I still tote a £700 Mulberry handbag. I would upload a picture of it because it's that good, but the iPad won't let me. Indeed the iPad is also a nifty bit of spite shopping.

Anyway, today I was in the metropolis known as Devizes, mooching around the second hand shops as is my want these days, when a bright young thing serving in one of them admired my handbag and pointed out a similar one but in tan. Mine being black. Thinking I might pick up a bargain I inspected it closely. It had been stuffed with all manner of interesting stuff to show its perfect lines. And I was impressed with this idea, much more satisfying than screwed up brown paper. I was flicking through a diary that had been in the bag, after returning to it a rather nice tortoiseshell hair clip, a silk scarf and a exquisite little mirror, and wondered whether the bag came with the contents,
"How much is it?" I asked "and does it come with the contents?"
"eh no," she replied, "it's my bag. I was just pointing out the similarities with yours."
I returned her diary to the bag and zipped it up smartly. I backed out of the shop in a confusion of heartfelt and profuse apologies.

Oh god, I still haven't got over it.

And there was a very nice mirror in there (shop, not bag. Although there was one in the bag as I think I may already have mentioned) but I am far, far, far too embarrassed to ever go back there.

In fact I may never go out again.

No sex please we're British (ish)

When my parents divorced and the joint properties were sold, my mother moved to a new house by the sea-side. She treated herself to new bed on her move, an all singing and dancing affair that lifted your head or feet or both I imagine, at the press of a button. I didn't think much about it at the time but it was a single bed. She wasn't that much older than I am now, so this morning I am pondering the significance of the singleness. Especially as when moving here to my single existence, I bought a double bed. Currently I sleep with one or two dogs and assorted passing cats so there's not much room for anyone else, but did I buy a double (and it never crossed my mind to buy a single) because somewhere in my subconscious I don't want to sleep alone? ? ? It's a worrying thought because I believe that I quite like living alone. It's the first time in my life that I have done this. I have never before lived in a home that didn't contain at least one other human being. And it's liberating. And selfish, in that I only have my self to please, not counting of course the two dogs, four cats, four chickens, two rabbits and two ponies that need attention now and then. I eat when I like, sleep when I like, watch whatever I like on the telly and the remote is MINE. That will change a bit in a biggish sort of way when I return to work sometime in the nearish future, but not the essence of doing as I please. Now I'm starting to feel better I feel like a kid let loose in a toy shop, so why suddenly am I looking at my bed and wondering why I bought a double. Why would I want to share this oh so peaceful and self centred existence for god's sake? Perhaps I need a cold shower which is funny because I did unexpectedly have one this morning as the boiler seems to have gone on strike. It wasn't as much fun as those mad Scandinavians claim. And yesterday I made red currant jelly. Perhaps my subconscious is trying to save me from myself before I turn into a mad old cat (dog, pony, rabbit, chicken) woman with a shopping trolley and woolly hat. Which is another striking coincidence because when I was in hospital last month they gave me a brown woolly hat from the chemo hat and wig corner because no-one else liked it but I did. I wonder where I can get such a useful thing as a shopping trolley? (ps I did put paragraphs honest, but blogger as decided to ignore them again, perhaps because I'm using the iPad?)