Laundry in the Morning

Early morning. Wake up, start the day hand-washing the laundry. Boiler left on since the night before to catch those three hours of electricity which came on during the wee hours of the morning. Clothes have been soaking for a couple days now, it’s time to give them a good shake. Open the tap, trickle trickle, gush gush. Light a candle rendered useless by the cold morning light trickling in through the grimy side window. Close the door to the tiny, dark, dingy bathroom. Contain as much of the steamy heat as possible. Squelch squelch, scrub scrub. I take advantage of the suds and warm water and give myself a wash as well. Put on the essentials to avoid getting cold.

This hand washing clothes business is new to me. Sure I’ve scrubbed the odd stain or two once a month, but it’s nothing compared to the mountain of clothes I’ve ambitiously thrown into a 30 litre bucket. Do I scrub each item of clothing individually? Should I beat them with a stick? I settle for the provincial wine making procedure, using arms instead of feet. I feel like a strange sort of gorilla.

Pressing down through the water on the soaked folds of cloth, suds spill over the sides unto my shoes. Circular movements, vertical movements, awkward movement become smoother, soothing movements. The quick take in of air as clothes are brought up from below, the slap as they are quickly submerged again and tiny bubbling air bubbles rising to the surface. I’m suddenly five, sitting on the side of the well watching Tita do the laundry in my grandmother’s house.

For some reason doing the batch of colours is more difficult than the whites. Probably because there’s more of them and it’s already half past eight. Quick! Time to rinse each item separately because mass rinsing will never get the job done in time. Take the procedure to the sink, the shock of cold gushing water adds to the urgency and the briskness of my movements. More scrubbing, squelching, wringing. Set aside. Work my way through half the bucket and do the quick math. There’s not enough time. Hang up what is ready, get dressed and go to work. Fifteen minutes. Grab the clothes and head outside, dripping trail following my lead. Wriggle the rusty gates open with my foot, balance the mound of clothes on the dusty balcony rails, try not to loose any privates over the side. Has it been raining? Leaves are damp and mysterious puddles of water are present but the sky is an early morning gray and shows no signs of rain. Ten minutes, shit.

Wring the clothes three at a time, lose two socks and one underwear over the railing in the process.  Ungrateful ****s, get back here! Rush back inside to dress for a rescue mission. Can’t have the whole neighborhood watching as I climb down the gutter to the steep jungle that is my landlady’s garden in fresh smelling under whites, calf-socks and loafers. Five minutes, get dressed! Work dressed. Put on shoes, trousers and a sweater, do your makeup and grab a hair tie. Get your jacket, scarf and backpack. Where’s my hat? Turn off the heater, lock the gate, climb down the gutter, grab your underwear, throw it onto the branch overhanging the balcony, climb back up and bike to work. Hatless.

And here I am, sitting at a computer for the next 7 hours, watching the sun rise over the rooftops greeting the world with its warm embrace. Life is so much more exciting on the outside.