It may surprise many people to learn that I do my own laundry. Yes, I do know what laundry is and how to operate a washing machine and even a tumble dryer. Even more shocking is the fact that I know where to put the washing powder/liquid and fabric softener so you don't end up with clothes that still have soap in them when you are ready to dry them.
I can even separate my dark clothes from my lights and whites - well I could if I had any white and lights and the same goes for delicate items - hosiery and lingerie have never really been something I'd had much use for, especially when ammo is a much better investment.
Granted blood doesn't really ever wash out and grease can be a pain, but on the whole I manage to keep my clothes clean enough that there isn't a repellent scent of body odor that comes wafting to the nostrils every time I open my wardrobe or my drawers.
Though I do have experience with laundry, I have never really understood why people make such fuss over machines "eating" socks. I mean it had never happened to me and on days when there really didn't seem to be anything else to discuss, Fred and Harry would bleat on about how one of their socks had got lost in the wash, or the machine had mangled one, or someone had put something red in with their whites - oh wait that's something different - but still not only did the sheer dullness of this topic numb my brain, the idea that rational people could blame a machine for losing their sock seemed utterly ridiculous to me.
Of course I voiced these views in a very adult and respectful manner...oh alright, I called them both idiots and told them they deserved shooting for exposing me to firstly boring conversation and secondly for believing that machines for cleaning had developed a consciousness that revolved around depriving them of their socks.
Needless to say it brought an end to the evening.
However the next time I came to do my laundry, I collected it from the washing machine, put it through the dryer, but when it came to pairing my socks I found that two were missing - one white and one black, and I am not talking about the kind of socks that you buy from any normal shop (they only sell really, really, really, really dark blue ones). Oh no this one sock that was part of a pair of priest's socks that Pastor Patrick had given me.
So I searched through the dryer and the washing machine and couldn't find it anywhere. I retraced my steps to see if I had dropped them anywhere, checked my laundry bag and went over my apartment and office with a fine tooth comb when it struck me that it seemed very convenient that I should lose two socks just days after I had ridiculed Mr. Wonderful and Mr. Sleep-with-everything-that-moves over their enjoyment of trivialities.
Both denied all knowledge of stealing my socks, so when a pair of red knickers got mixed in with both Fred and Harry's white shirts, it was complete mystery as to whom they belonged to.
You might call it petty, but pettiness works for me.
I can even separate my dark clothes from my lights and whites - well I could if I had any white and lights and the same goes for delicate items - hosiery and lingerie have never really been something I'd had much use for, especially when ammo is a much better investment.
Granted blood doesn't really ever wash out and grease can be a pain, but on the whole I manage to keep my clothes clean enough that there isn't a repellent scent of body odor that comes wafting to the nostrils every time I open my wardrobe or my drawers.
Though I do have experience with laundry, I have never really understood why people make such fuss over machines "eating" socks. I mean it had never happened to me and on days when there really didn't seem to be anything else to discuss, Fred and Harry would bleat on about how one of their socks had got lost in the wash, or the machine had mangled one, or someone had put something red in with their whites - oh wait that's something different - but still not only did the sheer dullness of this topic numb my brain, the idea that rational people could blame a machine for losing their sock seemed utterly ridiculous to me.
Of course I voiced these views in a very adult and respectful manner...oh alright, I called them both idiots and told them they deserved shooting for exposing me to firstly boring conversation and secondly for believing that machines for cleaning had developed a consciousness that revolved around depriving them of their socks.
Needless to say it brought an end to the evening.
However the next time I came to do my laundry, I collected it from the washing machine, put it through the dryer, but when it came to pairing my socks I found that two were missing - one white and one black, and I am not talking about the kind of socks that you buy from any normal shop (they only sell really, really, really, really dark blue ones). Oh no this one sock that was part of a pair of priest's socks that Pastor Patrick had given me.
So I searched through the dryer and the washing machine and couldn't find it anywhere. I retraced my steps to see if I had dropped them anywhere, checked my laundry bag and went over my apartment and office with a fine tooth comb when it struck me that it seemed very convenient that I should lose two socks just days after I had ridiculed Mr. Wonderful and Mr. Sleep-with-everything-that-moves over their enjoyment of trivialities.
Both denied all knowledge of stealing my socks, so when a pair of red knickers got mixed in with both Fred and Harry's white shirts, it was complete mystery as to whom they belonged to.
You might call it petty, but pettiness works for me.
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