"I'm not going to do your washing or ironing ever again!"
This bellowed from the psychotic "stepmother" (see my Blood post for explanation) after I got upset, with the washing machine, which ripped my new jeans.


She took this annoyance with the inanimate, rotating cleaner of fabrics, as a personal attack on the quality of 'her housewifely duties' (her words). She went into the usual rage of screaming like a 3 year old, slamming doors and generally making a pathetic arse of herself.

I retreated to the safety of my room, only to be followed by what I can only describe as the Indiana Jones Temple of Doom rolling rock, only that it was going uphill and arguing with itself. It might even have included me in the ranting, but I'm not sure.

She then blocked the doorway, impressive idea when I'm sat on my bed listening to music, before demanding that I do my own washing and ironing forever more.

"Fine."
"Good."

Two weeks later, I had a pile of washing on the landing next to my overflowing washing basket, when she broke her protest and washed and ironed it all.

What she didn't realise was that, as I was moving from house to house a lot, I had an awful lot of clothes found in different cupboards and wardrobes. Even now I have around 60 T-shirts, so, including work clothes, I could have continued her own protest for a good few months (although I was starting to question when the pile would actually start to stink).

Length? I moved out about 3 weeks after she'd finished washing and ironing the pile.
(Ethelred is watching cheese grow, Wed 17 Nov 2010, 11:06, Reply)