washing day

Despite the smell, Adelaide enjoyed sorting the washing.

She liked that the washing came with several decisions each of which had potentially awkward, but not life-threatening, repurcussions: where to put her brown cotton shirt – in with the darks or with the (generally shades of light) business shirts (his not hers); virtuous cold wash or more effective hot; quilt covers or just the sheets; flannels or just the towels; was this the weekend to do her favourite cardigan?

And as she answered each question to herself (darks, cold, sheets, flannels, no) Adelaide thought of her husband’s Nan. A most beautiful, glorious, warm and giggling Nan who worked in a cannery, but shopped of a Monday, baked of a Wednesday, and on Fridays did her wash.

And didn’t that just go to show that friendships are curious, glorious things Adelaide thought as she poured the softener in.

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