Guys, I’ve lost my clothes.
I woke up, this morning, to find that the weather outside my window looked like this:
And, actually, the weather inside my window looked like this, too, because I forgot to shut my window, last night. So, the weather on my mother’s antique chair looked like this, and the weather went partway towards filling the mug on the windowsill, and the weather on all of my shoes was particularly unpleasant.
But, most importantly, the weather was all between me and the laundry I didn’t bother to bring in, last night.
Now, going out to the washing line first thing in the morning is a bore at any time, because at ten to six in the morning, my spatial co-ordination is at its lowest, and the ratio of newly-built spiderwebs to clear air is at its highest. But the walk is worst when it’s raining, because once you’ve delicately tiptoed through the mud and the grass, both of which grow at an alarming rate when the weather gets all weather-y, you know that all that’s going to greet you at the end of your quest is a rain-damp shirt and a depressing cardigan, which, because you are in a hurry, you will have to dry with your own body heat.
Either of these items, however, would have been better than what actually greeted me, which was: no clothes at all. When I reached the washing line, all that lay before me was the prospect of a miserable sodden trudge back to the house, alleviated only slightly by the thought of the satisfying way my dressing gown sweeps out dramatically behind me when I walk, like a plaid cape.
So, I have no idea where my clothes went. I approached my mother to ask her about it, but, understandably, considering it was arse o’clock in the morning, she was curled up and snoring contentedly in a pile of blankets, like Smaug after a night on the town. (Also, the worst thing anyone can possibly do is wake my mother without warning, because she greets unexpected consciousness with a dangerous flailing windmill of limbs, before staggering upright and going in search of the culprit, so she can corner them and remind them of every wrong they’ve done her since age three. So, it’s best to let her lie. Sleeping dragons, and all that.)
I still have no idea where my clothes are. I have no idea who would have nicked off with an armful of daggy second-hand office attire, but someone has, and I suspect that someone is related to me.
In an anticlimactic conclusion, I just wore Monday’s clothes again, because they’re essentially exactly the same as Wednesday’s clothes, but in a different colour.
