We faced a laundry drying crisis last weekend.
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Heavy rain and the misguided strategy of waiting for a clear day to wash had led to severe depletion of active wardrobe items.
When I say active, I mean clothes that pass the "have I worn this in the last 14 days" test. Make that the last 14 months. But there's a limit to that complacency, and patchy washing vigilance will get you there.
Contrary to optimistic reports in pop music, we could not see clearly now the rain had gone. Because it hadn't. Not long enough to risk washing or drying anything.
Meanwhile, movement through the house had been impeded by overflowing laundry baskets, and having recently completed an OH&S module for work, I could see hazards looming as incidents and was starting to assess risk, of no clean sheets.
Fair to say, my outlook on life was narrowing alarmingly, but you get that during Covid and La Nina. But everything mould is not new again, according to my OH&S module.
Particularly working from home when they urge you to wear a clean pair of undies to at least Monday Zoom meetings.
If you can find a pair.
Going commando is technically not impossible, and some of my network colleagues may well have already pulled off this audacious manoeuvre. But Full Monty above and below the camera line could unnecessarily escalate to HR.
So the call was made to prepare the dryer last weekend for a marathon sesh.
Dormant through drought and unfortunately a lot of the floods, it was now, ironically time for the dryer to shine. Or more to the point, tumble.
Like the rouble in Russia, or Will Smith's reputation after slapping down Chris Rock at the Oscars. Actually, hopefully better than that.
Our dryer is not really that heavy duty though being basically a metal box heated by dodgy wiring. So a fire extinguisher was at the ready in the makeshift garage dry room, and safety thongs worn at all times in case you needed to be earthed.
We were also washing simultaneously to clear the logjam. A double jeopardy weekend dictated by relentless wash cycles on the one hand and the fear of shrinking stuff and/or burning down the house on the other.
Meanwhile, random windows of sunshine lured the unwary outside hopeful for conventional hang time. But even Michael Jordan would struggle in these conditions.
Nothing worse than painstakingly pegging clothes outside only to have to rush out and rip them down once the showers resume. Not only do the clothes get damp, so does the enthusiasm for pegging.
And it's possible some people get pulled more out of shape than the clothes they claim you're ruining by the way you're hanging them out.
As is the nature of laundry, it was always going to get dirty. And personal. Let's just say the truth came out in the wash and was confirmed once we toasted the delicates.
But everything's nice and cuddly now. Till next cyclone.
