I hate the rain. 

I thought I’d document this here. Last night I experienced without doubt the worst four minutes of my life. 

Having not checked the forecast I stupidly hung out towels and duvet covers yesterday at 8am before the rains of biblical proportions started. I returned home scowling at 9pm in the driving bloody rain to a toppled whirligig and washing akimbo. 

I did briefly consider leaving it all out there like a Tracy Emin installation until at least Thursday on the off chance that a) the world ended, rendering the shame of it all null and void, or b) it miraculously righted itself and dried;  but guilt got the better of me and I eventually stomped out to fetch it all in. 

It was a hellish tangle of pegs, sodden towels, duvet covers and whirligig line, and I whimpered like a wounded animal until it was all in the basket. I also said “fucking washing” a few times. Upon lifting the basket – which now weighed heavier than a neutron star or something else that’s all the matter in the universe condensed down to an unbelievably heavy thing – I staggered and twisted my ankle, which probably broke my toe again, if the pain was anything to go by. 

I dumped it all in the utility room, where it sits yet, together with my wet frock, tights, pants and bra. And shoes. And dignity. 

So there we have it ladies and gents. Without doubt the worst four minutes of my life to date. I know it sounds overdramatic. Tough. 


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