All I want for Christmas is some clean clothes.

My dad’s flat doesn’t have a washing machine. It probably doesn’t sound like a big deal, but it’s really, really annoying. When I used to come home from university, I’d take all my washing to my mum’s house. I’d call her, chew the fat for a while before innocently invite myself round. Then I’d turn up at her house, barge in with a bin bag full of my clothes, and ask “you got any more food?” through a mouth full of crisps that I’d already raided her cupboards for. I would literally whirl round her kitchen like Taz, overloading the washing machine and getting crumbs on the counters and drinking her expensive orange juice. I think now when I go to her house she inspects me through the spyhole to see what I have with me before deciding whether she’s going to open the door or not.

So now the only two choices I have are to spend a whole day washing my clothes like a Victorian maid or go to the laundrette. And seeing as I don’t currently own a washing board or a mangle (I did have a look on Ebay, apparently you can’t get stuff delivered from the 1800s), I have to trek down to Salisbury’s version of Skid Row to wash my clothes. One time there was human faeces on the pavement outside the launderette, and I’m pretty sure I saw a woman pick it up in a zip-fresh sandwich bag before placing it gently in her hideous backpack that was shaped like Zippy from Rainbow. When I told my dad about this, he asked me how I knew it was a human poo and not dog shit, but I think we’ve all seen enough of to know the difference, am I right or am I right?

My dad often goes home whilst his clothes wash but I like to stay with my washing, because there are too many suspicious people in wolf fleeces like this one for my liking:

So I sit in an uncomfortable plastic chair for around an hour and half (inc. tumble dry time) with a newspaper that I have sneakily cut eye holes in. This is so I can make sure that no one tries taking a pair of my pants to keep in the pocket of their fleece, which I can only imagine is filled with snotty tissues, used ear cleaners and already-chewed Juicy Fruit.

Also, I have to spend washing day dressed like this:

And I’m worried the laundrette people are going to start accepting me as one of their own.

So all my dad really needs to do to fulfil my Christmas wish is buy a washing machine. And seeing as there’s limited space, he’s either going to have to get rid of his bed or move into a bigger flat. Personally I think it would be easier to get rid of the bed.


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