You never think the day will come when you’ll see clothes-drying as an adventure sport. For most of your life, the drying of clothes was consigned to an outpost in the corner of the garden. Neat squares of clothes appeared at the foot of your bed and you’d bury your face in them, breathing in the smell of mother.
The only time you had to worry about drying was when spatters of rain came and you were called upon to dash out and bring in the clothes. You scooped up the plastic clothes basket and put it on your head, enjoying the novelty of a world divided into segments. Then with deft hands, your mother would convert the clothes into those sweet-smelling squares.
Then the time came for you to take care of your own drying, to create your own neat squares. The washing machine stared at you as you ate your dinner and the clothes horse stood guard over your living room, its plastic boughs laden with clothes. But the business of drying could carry on without interference from you, leaving you free to get on with the business of living.
Battling the Elements
It was only when you came to the house by the sea that the clothes-drying Olympics began. Now you battle against air laden with moisture, a changeable sky and a clothes line that shuns light and heat, a Bermuda Triangle of damp. You watch yourself in horror as you ask that existential question: Will I ever get those clothes dry?’ You ask it of everyone you meet, of the neighbourhood women, of business colleagues, of former booze buddies.
Clothes-drying has become a race against the elements. There are days when the sun peeps out and dares you to dry the clothes. Your heart soaring with hope, you take the bait and pin them out on the clothesline. As soon as you decide you’ll leave them out just a little longer, a vengeful deity chucks a bucket of water down from the sky, forcing you to stage a rescue mission. On other days, the air is grey and still, and you decide to put out the clothes because at least it’s dry. Several hours later, you bring them in and they sag in your arms, dampness still clinging to them.
On other days, the clouds refuse to break and the rain falls in a relentless stream, but the clothes are reproaching you, so you unleash a seldom-deployed weapon: the tumble drier. You shovel the clothes into the drum, smug because you’ve managed to thwart the elements. When you take them out, the lingering smell of damp hits your nostrils. The elements have thwarted you.
The Drying Challenge
Hanging the clothes is a triathlon, with various punishing stages to endure, Bed sheets and towels take up great swathes of the clothesline, and finding room for the rest of the clothes becomes a test of spatial awareness. You pin the underwear on the spinning umbrella, playing Go Fish with the socks, wondering why there’s always one sock that refuses to find a mate. You bob up and down as you pin out the underwear: sock, knickers, sock, knickers.
Socks make a break for the border. No matter how hard you try to keep them in line, a few rebels always escape, and you find them strewn along the path. Pegs migrate indoors, buried in the folds of the clothes, and have to be deported back to the clothesline. Then there’s the high-wire act, as you start to run out of space. You balance on tiptoe, your head swimming, as you place clothes on the upper reaches of the line.
Mastering the Drying
At last, you learn to coax the clothes dry. You form a partnership with the elements, letting the air start the drying process and the wood finish it, as the clothes nestle cheek by jowl on a clotheshorse in front of the fire. You start to read the sky and heed the weatherman’s warnings. You view fabric softener as a luxury akin to vintage wine.
A line of clothes drying is now a sweet sight rather than a dreaded one. You and your husband sometimes pin them up together and meet in the middle. As you pin up the last sock, you feel his arms circle your waist. With quiet pride, you survey the line of clothes, flying the flag for the home you have created together.