LATE NIGHT WASHING MACHINE

Climb into bed. Switch off the light and let the cool dark flood over you while the night breeze begins its gentle lullaby. The pillow softly cradles your head and the duvet is warm and deliciously heavy as you snuggle down into...

I've left washing in the machine, haven't I?

You know, there are few things more frustrating. I scan through the options, blinking at the ceiling. Leave it there? Not the best - I'll have to wash it again in the morning. Get up and hang it up on the clothes horse? My eyelids flutter shut with exhaustion and annoyance. That is the thing to do, isn't it? I tumble upwards and out.

For reasons beyond my understanding, the clothes horse is in the garden. After a few minutes looking for it in its usual slot, I spot it standing out on the grass, illuminated by the light in the kitchen. It's empty, bare like a white plastic tree in the middle of the lawn.

I turn the handle of the back door. Locked. Of course it is. Where's the key? In the egg basket, it'll be in the egg basket where it always.... it's not in the egg basket. Why is it not in the egg basket? It's always in the egg basket - since time began the egg basket has always been the natural home of the back door key, far from the lock and hidden from burglars and small children. Children. It's in the doll's house. I see it glinting on the miniature stairs, out of place and over-sized, compared to the tiny furniture. The door unlocks.

Bare feet. Do I risk it? The grass will be cold, maybe even wet. There might even be slugs. Definitely wet though - it's the middle of the night. I find my slippers eventually, wedged underneath the sofa, and I carefully retrieve the clothes horse from the garden, closing the back door behind me.

Out comes the sopping pile of wet clothes, tumbling together from the washing machine. The shirts will need hangers. I scoop it up into one massive wet pile and carry it out to the clothes horse, leaving a trail of socks behind me as though I'm leaving weird clues for Hansel and Gretel. That annoys me. I dump the pile next to the clothes horse ready for the tedious task of sorting and hanging. My eyes are itchy and my muscles ache a bit. I walk into the fridge and the corner digs into my back, causing me momentarily to wonder what it's like to be mugged... by a refrigerator.

I pull out sleeves, shake out t-shirts and drape jeans and socks over the clothes horse. Up go the shirts on hangers, hooked on the uplighters like some kind of hideous wall-art. It strikes me that it's more like a multi-coloured to-do list of things I must iron. Finally, I switch out the lights, tip-toe my way back to bed with a glimmer of satisfaction, and close my eyes, ready for sleep to finally take me into its...

I've left a trail of socks across the kitchen floor, haven't I?