Two days later I remember what I have done. Damn. Like opening some deep space airlock I gingerly release the door latch and do my best to catch the overspill of socks, towels, and things that I do not remember putting in there in the first place. Naturally I do not own anything as sophisticated as a laundry basket and so, after about ten trips, I have successfully transported the entire load to the kitchen where it is time to face my ultimate nemesis: the clothes hanger. This is a white, plastic, device from the Devil himself. The basic idea is that the hanger is unfolded to form a three tier, free standing frame, upon which the damp items can be placed until such time that they are completely fresh and dry. Sounds simple enough, I know, but sadly it appears that I have some kind of genetic inability to correctly use this piece of equipment.

Like the washing machine, this household appliance has learnt to fear me, and with good reason. Ok, let’s see, start with the towels. Easy enough, carefully extend the towel, place it over the plastic bar and position. Nice, no problem. Now shirts: again, simply lay over a free bar and adjust any folds. I repeat this process a few times and it’s looking good, except I have only managed to hang up about 5% of my washing and am already down to one lonely, slightly buckled, free bar. Bravely, I grab a handful of socks and start stuffing as many as I can on this last free space, the rest of the load looks back at me. No problem, perhaps those towels don’t need quite as much space and with a little reorganizing we can free up some real estate here. Good, now let’s fit some shorts and smaller items into the free spaces. Yes, that’s better. Still, there’s a lot left to hang. Wait a minute, the shirts, maybe I could just hang those by the collar on the corners of the hanger? Genius! I grab a couple of shirts and start to pull them free, after a couple of sharp tugs they do, indeed, come free, tragically the hanger itself is not so co-operative and I watch in horror as the entire frame crashes to the ground. In a panic I drop the shirts and start lifting the hanger back onto its feet. Given the weight of the damp clothing this is not an easy task but soon it is upright once more, though naturally a number of smaller items have slipped off during this process and there is now a litter of laundry scattered on the floor. It is at this point I pour myself a stiff drink and sit down.

Eventually all the wet clothing is hung up. Most of it does go on the hanger however chairs and tables also make for excellent drying devices and so the kitchen now resembles some kind of refugee camp site. No matter, stage 2 is complete and it is now simply a matter of letting nature take her course and the clothes will dry without any activity on my part. Except they don’t. Days go by and things are starting to get serious. My boss is not impressed by my latest attire (sleeveless t-shirt, waistcoat and plus fours) and the clothes are not getting any drier. In desperation I turn the heating up full in the kitchen and spend a sweaty night watching the damp spread through my house. By morning, however, we have some success; there is a complete outfit that is not quite as wet as the other stuff - great. Now for the ironing.