Ahhhh, housework. My favourite thing to complain about. Let’s face it: it’s boooooring. And largely thankless too because no sooner have you emptied the washing basket than it’s full to bursting again. There are a few things that make my life a little bit tougher in this area too. Firstly, Sausage. It’s not that I mind washing her clothes. It’s that, if she had her way, she’d change outifts about once an hour. Sometimes, I think she deliberately gets herself mucky just because she knows it means she’ll get a costume change. The kid is worse than Elton on a World Tour. She needs her own wardrobe lady, or at the very least a dedicated washing machine, just for her stuff. It’s got worse since she started school too as now I have a constant stream of paint-spattered polos, gravy-smeared skirts and cardigans with those tell-tale white streaks up the sleeves which tell you that, despite the packet of Kleenex in their pocket, your kid has been cuffing their snot making the washing pile twice it’s usual size.

Then there’s the dog. I know it may seem odd that the dog creates a lot of washing, but to this I say; you’ve never met my dog. Apart from the pile of dirty old towels that regularly build up from all the foot wiping we have to do when he goes out to the garden because he insists on using the soles of his feet to scent mark the whole garden, he also likes to lay on stuff. Anything that’s vaguely soft and left within paws-reach gets laid all over, leaving it smelling of dog (and sometimes fox, given his obsession with rolling around in that in the garden) which means I have a constant stream of dog-besmirched items, such as Sausage’s Hugglebuddy, which has spent more time in the washer than is natural for a purple unicorn.

The problem is, all of this usage means that my washing machine has seen better days. It’s supposed to be one of those silent machines that only hums gently even when on the most vigorous spin, but it sounds like an epileptic Dalek even when it’s on Gentle. I suspect that’s not entirely aided by the array of things that I find in with the wash, even after the most rigourous screening of pockets before a load goes in. Stones, marbles, Barbies, a spoon and a small plastic lion have all been items found nestling within the freshly laundered contents of the drum. How the door has never smashed is a mystery. Then, yesterday, I saw this:

Look it it, just sitting there, right at the front, TAUNTING me, the audacious little scrap of plastic that I had to watch, going round and round and round. It’s the final straw. The final insult. (Dramatic? Moi?!)

I’ve decided a need a new washing machine.  In fact, my current machine is like the mechanical embodiment of me – overworked, smells a bit odd, full of rubbish. No, wait, that analogy didn’t quite go to plan, but the point is, I NEEEEED a new washing machine, specifically a Hotpoint one and I think John Lewis should give it to me because I totally deserve it!