Dirty linen

Wednesday is wash day, and I struggled to the launderette bent under the burdensome weight of every stitch of clothing and bed linen in my possession. I took over half of the launderette with my piles of washing. The laundress wrote down my name in her book: Mr Snill. I don’t think I’ll ever remember how to say e’s or i’s in French so I am now officially a Snill. She asked me if it was an English name. Well I suppose it beats snail and smell, which are the usual hilarious witticisms I have become accustomed to.

To the supermarket to replenish the dwindling stocks, then home for lunch and an afternoon’s writing before collecting my laundry, all neatly folded away. In the process of putting the cover back on the giant duvet, I slipped on the wooden floor and fell inside it. It felt like I was trapped in there for hours.

A gin and tonic or two at a little place I know around the corner, then two hours of more writing before cassoulet au canard and Curb Your Enthusiasm (the last one on the DVD – what am I going to do now?) and Frasier.