Oxford life. Thirtysomething challenges. Music leanings. Anything really.

Washing whites is a slow process. My wardrobe is largely dark, my few white clothes fester at the bottom of the laundry box until enough whites have been collected to fill the machine.

I dig them out, carry them downstairs, stuff them in the machine, and relish the imminent opportunity to wear the tan-enhancing white shirt that I own.

So why is that it's only when you press start and the water starts flowing that you notice that you have dropped the one item you really care about on the floor on the way to the machine?

EVERY bloomin' time. It now needs to fester for another month...