Sunday used to involve a gentle session at the pub, a roast and a few pints. Maybe a walk, nothing too strenuous.
More of a stroll.
Followed by shit telly, beige food and bed, ready to start the week with a moderate hangover and no-one to worry about other than myself.
WELCOME TO SUNDAY NIGHTS NOW.
That’s two loads.
Two more to go.
I have no idea how we generate so much fucking washing as a family.
There are four of us, and the youngest is half my height and refuses to wear anything other than a grey tracksuit which makes him look like a mini version of Rocky, so it’s not him.
My life is now one long washing cycle, pairing odd socks and trying not to shrink school uniforms in the tumble dryer.
Oh- the tumble dryer. My second love after the kids.
The only luxury item I bought when I was given the advance on my book
Not a Vivienne Westwood dress. Nope.
Or a snazzy new radical hair cut. Not for me.
Or a reinvent yourself tattoo of some motivational quote. I don’t think so.
A FRICKING TUMBLE DRYER.
So if you’d excuse me, I now have a date with a series about a psycho serial killer and approximately four hundred pairs of individual socks to match up.
Hello Sunday nights of the future...