Washing

I like hanging my washing on the line, it brings memories of other clothes lines I have stood at, chatting with my fellow participant. In Wellington with the wind blowing a gale, where you dash out in gumboots and raincoat in a squishy muddy lawn, with clothes whipping you in the face as you struggle to get the pegs on, then a mad dash back inside where its all warm with sister Sharon. Or chatting with Paddy as we companionably shared this chore in Auckland on a sunny day. Or in Europe with my other sister Phil and the only clothes line was a couple of metres of twisted cord that you untwisted and poked the edges of underwear which it held as it twisted back, or driving through Germany with damp clothes draped over suitcases and seats to dry in the sun, anyone walking past our parked car would have had a giggle, no it wasn't our undies. In dear old Gisborne my home town, checking nappies that where stiff as boards after a heavy frost many years ago. Now in Perth where you can hang your clothes out in summer and two hours later they are all dry with the lovely sweet smell of sunshine. A mundane task but it gives you the opportunity to day dream of doing this chore with others, or just to day dream.