We need to employ a washerwoman

Over the last few years I have put on quite a bit of weight. This has been due to a combination of things: i.e. the difficulty finding time to prepare proper meals now we’ve got the kids and the lack of physical activity in my job. But mainly my weight gain has been due to my two favorite deadly sins - gluttony and sloth. I only have myself to blame.

As a result of my transformation into a fat bloater, only approximately 20% of my wardrobe actually fits me. Normally that isn’t too much of a problem as I just circulate the old favorites (plus I wear my underpants for several days in a row). However, when I am called on to wear particularly specific clothing (such as lederhosen or a kilt) I tend to come unstuck.

I am going to a funeral today. One of my colleague’s husband has passed away and, while I didn’t know him, I am going along to show my support for her. But I can’t find my white shirt. I know I have one, I wore it to a funeral last month. It’s a posh one that needs cufflinks and I’m never sure if I’ve done them properly.

We’re in the middle of a laundry meltdown at the moment at the Hughes household. We have piles of washing stacked up around our bedroom to the point that you almost can’t see out of the windows. We’ll get back on top of things eventually, but for the time being every time you want to get dressed you have to rummage through the heap like a contestant on the crystal maze.

So my white shirt is lost somewhere in the pile. I am loathe to disturb it to much in case the whole thing topples down on me. Left pinned under such an avalanche of dirty washing I would sustain myself only by sucking on damp socks and food stains on shirts, until eventually after five days I would be reported missing and dragged out by a mountain rescue St Bernard.

No, it’s not worth the risk. I think I’ll wear my grey shirt instead.