Forget the Celebrities: Read about MY Crazy Life

My CRAZY Life: Washday

When I was young, I was led to believe that washday was always a Monday. Well, have I learned

different! As far as my wife, Breda, is concerned everyday day is a wash day - she loves washing and

pursues this agenda with a vengeance that makes the days of the Roman Empire more akin to an

afternoon tea party than the brutal reality they actually were.

In the morning, before I am awake enough to even contemplate getting out of bed, and it doesn’t matter

what day of the week it happens to be, Breda has a wash on the go. Spinning, whirring and rattling

feverously, our ram-shackled machine obediently follows my wife’s purposeful commands. Although our

washing machine is just a tad less than two years old, I have to describe it as ram-shackled because of

the constant, non-stop use it has received over that relatively short period. And although it looks new on

the outside, its innards are on the verge of collapse. “Breda, what are you doing to me, and why oh why

do you always have to have a load of washing on the go?”

Only the other day, I was looking, searching for my new jumper. I had only worn it the once, and for only

a few hours at that, but it was nowhere to be seen. I couldn’t find it anywhere. When I had finally given

up searching for it, I casually remarked to my wife that I was unable to find it.

“Oh, that,” Breda replied, as cool as a cucumber, “it’s in the washing machine…”

I thought she was joking, I never thought for one second that it was actually - really - was in the washing

machine. So I said, “Where is it, really?”

“Breda was shocked; she was stunned that I had not believed her, when she had told me where it was,

so she again, said, “It’s in the washing machine.” And with that she casually walked away.

Despite this admission, I was still in hopeful denial as I walked into the kitchen, seeking my jumper, but

when I saw my lovely new jumper, spinning around and around in the washing machine, I shouted in

frustration, “No! Not my new jumper!”

The new jumper incident was by no means an isolated one. To be truthful it was only the start of my

wife’s love of washing. After the jumper (it shrank to only a fraction of its original size) my brand-new

shirt received a similar treatment (it’s now a deep shade of pink). Even my new suit was not safe from

my wife’s clutches, as she pursued her obsession in making every item of clothing I possessed

perfectly clean

.

You might think this an awful state of affairs to be in, and to a point you are right, however, there were

some good aspects to this situation. You see, during my wife’s rein of cleaning induced euphoria, I

never had to wash or clean anything in the entire house, and I mean - anything! Everything was in a

perpetual state of cleanliness, super spotlessly clean. The cutlery, crockery, furniture, windows, mirrors,

cupboards and the doors - everything was absolutely spotless! I could have eaten my meals off the

floorboards!

Now back to the washing…

To a point, I had grown used to my wife’s obsession for washing and cleaning, and we had an unspoken

agreement that I would ignore it, if it ceased at the back door of the house, leaving my precious garden

to me. This accord worked, and a fragile peace held for going on ten months. It held until one bright

spring day, when Breda walked down the garden path…bored.

I was out, having taken Blue, one of our two dogs out for a walk. He’s an old dog who absolutely loves

his daily walk, and because it was such a glorious day I had taken the longer route, through the local

park. That, my friends, was something I was going to regret…

On my return home, I opened the gate as I whistled merrily to myself. I love springtime, and May is my

favourite month of the year. I continued to whistled as I walked up the garden path, I hadn’t a care in the

world, everything was perfect, or so I thought…

“Darling, I’m home,” I called out as I opened the door.

No reply.

I unhooked the lead from Blue, and he made his way into the kitchen for a much needed drink of water.

“Breda… where are you?” I called out again.

Still no reply.

Scratching my head, I wondered where on earth she might be. I heard something crack. My head

cocked over to one side, listening. I heard another crack, like an old windowpane breaking, somewhere

outside.

“She hasn’t, she couldn’t, she mustn’t,” I cried out in desperation. “She isn’t in my garden shed!!!”

I carefully, tentatively, surreptitiously crept along the garden path, heading for my sanctum, my shed.

As I crept closer to my beloved shed, I heard many more noises emanating from it, noises of someone

feverously spring-cleaning. I approached the small window next to the shed door; particles, shards of

broken glass lay scattered on the path. The other, intact, windowpane was spotlessly clean. I peeked

though it. I glanced inside, where I saw my wife, Breda, enthusiastically rearranging all of my copies of

Gardeners’ World magazine.

I pushed the door open, only a touch mind you, but enough to offer the huge cloud of dust inside a route

to freedom. I coughed. Hearing me, Breda turned round, and she smiled…

”Gerrard,” she said, “see how I have improved your dusty old shed…”

I looked; staring at the tidiness that was once my sanctum, my refuge, my shed.

“Don’t you like it?” Breda asked me, her face dropping noticeably as she spoke.

How could I tell her, my new wife, that she had destroyed in an hour what I had taken years to perfect?

How could I tell her, the mess she had whisked away, was how I liked it?

I gulped, typing to find the appropriate words. I struggled, struggled to find a way out from the impasse,

where the last vestige of my freedom had been laid waste.

“It’s wonderful, Breda dear,” I lied.

She smiled a cautious smile.

“I was worried you might be angry…”

“Me, angry? Nah.” I lied again.

Believing my deceit, Breda pulled me into the shed and kissed me, before explaining how she had

improved it a hundredfold.

“See?” she enthused, “see how I have put all your gardening magazines in this one box?”

I stared blankly into the large box, flicking nonchalantly through the magazines, now sorted in reverse

order - the oldest at the top.

“Have a look at this,” said Breda, pointing to my old rocking chair in the corner of the shed. “See how I

have given it a new lease of life - just for you!”

She had, my wife had given my favourite chair a new lease of life, a makeover. She had painted it in

gleaming gold paint, making it more akin to the queen of England’s throne that my favourite old chair. I

dismayed at what other improvements were still awaiting my eager eyes. Turning my attention to the

broken windowpane, I fumbled with the pieces still in the frame.

Breda cried; my wife burst into tears as I collected the broken shards. She said, “I am sorry, I was

cleaning the window, I was on the last pane when it broke… I am so sorry…” Wiping a tear from her

eye, Breda offered to fix it, her hand dripping with blood.

“You’re cut,” I cried out in alarm, as she again tried to hide it from me. “Show me,” I insisted.”

She offered me her hand, Breda offered me her trembling hand in the same way she had offered it two

years previous, on our wedding day, but this time is was running red with blood.

“Come inside,” I ordered. “I’ll have it fixed in a jiff.”

We went inside the house, where I fixed my beloved wife’s hand, the pain soon at distant memory.

My shed? What happened to it? Well, I knew it would never again be my treasured sanctum. So what

did I do? That’s easy - I bought myself a brand-new shed, and began the process all over again…

I know, you're wondering how I managed to stop Breda from doing the very same thing with my new

shed. Hah, that’s easy - I put a parrot in it. You see, Breda is allergic to parrots! It’s a funny old world,

isn’t it?

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I am the crazy-mad writer of children's stories,

songs, nursery rhymes and much, much more!

Gerrard T Wilson 2008