Swamped

My garden, at this point in time, between Spring and Summer, is heaven incarnate. The fruit tree (judiciously pruned) is in full lush blossom; forget-me-nots surround our little flower-bed Thai God statue waist-high; the Rhodedendron bush (which hubby got so many brownie points clearing hostile hijacking weeds from last year) has come into its own with beautiful, bigger-than-a-tennis-ball blooms in sexily intense and fluffy dark and light pinks. The grass, speckled with daisies, has regained its healthy coat and from time to time petals flutter down like summer snowflakes from the apple tree flowers. The slash of red crocuses, painterly spread of eye-blue-bluebells, delicate mandarin green of the Japanese elm.

But - stop - this isn't a gardening columnn! No, the problem is, you see, the nasty rack of laundry outside on the patio, spoiling my Chelsea-flower-show-view.

Actually, I am drowning under washing. Piles of which, post-Easter-break and before the start of school, have suddenly mushroomed on every available flat area, bed, even stuffed into those builders' plastic tubs (otherwise used for mountains of toys). There's a whole menu: the yet-to-fling-into-the-machine lot; the already washed and dried but due to iron lot; the ready to put away (in a week when I've had time?!) lot...I HATE washing.

And that's not all. This morning I cursed under my breath as I negotiated a thigh-high pile of my husband's clothes gradually accumulated on the bedroom chair: (to absent husband>) "Bloody Hell! I'm not your bloody mother, you know! (to me, little voice>)I wish he'd put his own sodding clothes away for once..."

Hmmm. I think the holidays really are over.