Laundry Trauma

When looking at Lewes primary schools, we didn’t take into consideration the colour of the uniform. That would have been silly. Or would it? Reality has started to hit home, and, faced with the Laundry Challenge those Daz adverts were made for, I’m feeling persecuted by white shirts. They seem to ask: “Are YOU a good enough mother? Can you get your whites white?” Well the answer is: “No, I bloody can’t, and why does my laundry inadequacy have to be public knowledge now?” Those shirts are an instant magnet for highly visible grass stains, a splash of jolly poster paints, a blob that might be kiwi or could be snot. Plus something you’re really not sure you want to identify. Why not put kids in something sensible, like, say, brown and orange swirls or other pub carpet designs from the 1970s? Those carpets were like that for a good reason. Nothing showed up. Even a few passed-out customers could go unnoticed until the smell gave them away. Carpet-wear, both stylish and practical. As if I care about stylish. My mother put me in hideous ‘wash 'n' wear’ clothes so why shouldn’t my son suffer? I still only buy clothes for me that can withstand the assault of my erratic laundry habits. Irons are the Devil’s work, as are pale-coloured clothes that become a scratch and sniff record of every food/drink item I have consumed in the day. Before even leaving the house tomato sauce gets splashed down them, even if I haven’t been near the stuff. It must cling to the furniture, thus revealing I’m a housekeeping slut too.