These are my musings and observations on my daily life, loves and the laughter that are all a part of my experience of living now in the shires of England.

Saturday, 23 July 2011


That was the first word out of my mouth as I opened the washing machine door.

I have recently been following new fabric care instructions and I seem to have managed OK with them. This washload, however, was not as I’d expected it.

I’ve been through them all. You know, the tissue in the pocket wash that leads to hours of defluffing clothes, the stray coloured sock that results in a new shade to all your favourite special care items. Yes, I’ve had my wash day disasters like the rest of folk.

I have recently taken to reminding my son to empty all his pockets before he puts the clothes in the wash basket (socks never seem to find their way there – I’m always discovering them secreted in corners around his room and the house), and he has been surprisingly adept at following this simple request. So I can no longer blame the clothing disasters on him.

This one was definitely all me.

I knew something was missing for a day or so but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. The minute I opened the washing machine door I had my unwanted answer.

There was my watch.

It just lay in the rubber by the door and it even had the audacity not to look clean; there were dark marks all along the strap and the hands on the face were obscured by ... well, water.

So I just exclaimed that single word that summed up my stupidity for not checking my trousers pocket, “Ruined!”

Then I was surprised as I looked past the blurred glass and saw that the second hand was moving steadily around the circle. A double-check later and I realised that it was still working and was telling the correct time!

It has not all turned out roses but the bent bracelet sections can be straightened again and, maybe, the water will evaporate from the face but even now my watch is keeping perfect ‘clean’ time.

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