Washing day blues

There are some things in life I just can't understand. Like how can a cat be alive and dead at the same time. You have to find out from Erwin Schrödinger here. Personally I'm a dog man, so prefer Pavlov's dog here

In our house we have neither cats nor dogs, but plenty of spiders to keep us company. And we've obviously done something to upset the neighbourhood fox, who insists on a daily crap right in the middle of our driveway. I don't understand why, surely he or she would prefer to do it in the woods. Like bears, or indeed Army cadets.

However, the thing that mystifies me most and occupies my waking day is why there is always, but always washing to do. We seem to put the machine on every night. And worse still that means there is always ironing to be done. I've mentioned that before. How can that possibly be for just 14 shirts, 28 socks and fourteen pairs of man pants a week? (Don't worry, I don't iron socks and under clothes). It completely drives me nuts...especially as we have no tumble drier, nor much space to hang the wet stuff to dry. I have tried to allay my suspicions that the boy uses the dirty clothes bin instead of putting his clean clothes on the shelves and in the drawers in his room. I'm told that's a harsh thought, but it keeps coming back. Like a bad penny. Especially because every time I put my head around his door, all I can see is clothes everywhere. Except in the wardrobe or drawer unit. The floor is the premium hanging space, with other items draped liberally over the ends and sides of the bed. I assume that when I say (shout) that I'm not cooking supper until the room is tidy, he achieves this by scooping everything into the laundry basket. Harsh but fair.