Washday

After checking down the back of the sofa, I realise I have only enough money to either do the laundry or have a bath. They are both coin-op, you see.

Both my clothes pile and myself have seen better days.

With stunning alacrity and heaven-sent vision, I realise what has to be done.

I bundle my clothes into a basket, grab the packet of cheap washing powder, and head down to the bathroom. I fill the bath with water, pouring the powder liberally into the stream, which starts to foam.

Feeling delighted with myself at killing the proverbial two birds, I pile the clothes in, strip off, and get in too.

I start writhing around and grabbing the clothes, holding them up and churning them, swirling, and pumping with legs. The water turned grey and slimy, and then the bubbles stang my eyes like hornets so I leapt up, slipped, smashed my head back down on the taps.

I awake in a freezing state hours later, light gone, water dark; job done.

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