The Laundry Has Eyes
The Laundry Has Eyes
I’m sure my laundry has eyes. Not in a cute Pixar way — in a slightly sinister, “we’ve been waiting for you” kind of way. My school uniforms, my work clothes, the towels, the socks… all of them just sitting there. Staring. Judging.
Every time I walk past, I hear the whisper: “You know we need washing.” And I whisper back, “I know, but I can’t be arsed.”
I check the weather. “Mum, can we hang out outside?” the laundry asks. “Yes,” I say, “the weather’s actually good today.” Fresh breeze. Sunlight. That little “Daisy” smell of summer. Perfect conditions for washing. Zero motivation to do it.
The laundry has patience.
The laundry has eyes.
They follow me from room to room, those piles. There’s one on the chair pretending to be casual. One in the bathroom acting innocent. One that’s multiplied overnight, like wet gremlins.
It’s not that I hate laundry — I just hate being the only one who seems to see it. Everyone else walks past like it’s an art installation. “Oh, what’s that? A new modern sculpture called ‘Mum’s Slowly Losing It’?”
Eventually, I’ll give in. I’ll grab my headphones (because no, I’m not calling them AirPods; I’m not that cool), put on some loud, happy music, and transform into the reluctant pop star of my own utility room concert.
I’ll sing to the socks. Serenade the school jumpers. Give the whites a power ballad they didn’t ask for. Because sometimes that’s what it takes — a bit of ridiculous energy to get through the everyday madness.
The laundry may be watching… but you’ve got better rhythm.
Comments
Post a Comment