Kishore Singh: Laundry mania

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Lady Macbeth would famously wash her hands when she was stressed out; my wife washes clothes instead. And because she's stressed a lot these days, there's more than a bit of laundry being done at home. Most houses do some washing every day, but in ours, industry-loads of laundry are commonplace.

The reason why my wife is washing even more clothes than usual is because at the close of the calendar year she's made less money than she had hoped she might. She's taking out her anger against suppliers and buyers by steaming up the laundry room. Fortunately for her, we have guests at home, so she has more than just the family linen to wash and dry in public.

Even though it's foggy through the day, and there's very little place at home to dry tub loads of washing even when it's less cold, she's attacking spots and stains with vigour that would do someone younger than her proud. The part-time help who does the daily load has found her pile increasing as she adds table linen and cushion covers to the shirts and socks that make up the washload. But that's not all. Day and night, and night and day, she fills up the washing machine with jeans and bedsheets, extra curtains and overlays and duvets.

Because the guests have occupied my daughter's room, she was to have shifted temporarily to ours "" or so the arrangement stood. But last night, she baulked at the bargain, claiming our bedroom was too cold to sleep in. Which is hardly surprising because the fan in the balcony outside our bedroom, as well as the fan in the adjoining bathroom are switched on 24x7 to dry the clothes that have been hung there.

Past the witching hour, you'll find my wife turning the clothes over. In the morning, the house resembles something that might have been struck by a poltergeist. Skirts and shirts and stockings drape sofas, kerchiefs and napkins dry over telephones, pillow slips cover the television and computer monitors, hangers with various limp clothes hang from handles on doors and cupboards. And still the washing goes on "" sweats and Ts and camisoles, tracks and cardigans and jackets, scarves and mufflers, gloves and mittens ....

What's dried must then be ironed and put away, so it's no coincidence my wife looks like a dormitory matron forever organising the linen. No sooner have you changed, she'll have whisked off the garments into a tub where they'll soak for a while before they get the brush and soap treatment. You can't lie on the bed because that's where the folding and unfolding occurs; you can't disappear into the study because the book racks have metamorphosed into clothes racks, and you can't put on the TV because the remote is hidden under a pile of clothes too high to consider dismantling.

But damp weather or cold, there's no respite from the washing and drying and pressing and folding and putting away. There's summer clothes to wash before they're stashed away, and winter clothes to sun before they're worn. Vests and tea-towels hang from pictures on the walls, and table lamps are good for when you need something dried in a hurry "" only if it's left too long, you might need a darner in addition to a press-wallah.

By day, of course, things are less chaotic, and all the damp clothes find themselves hung up to dry in the balcony. But no sooner are the lights out for the night, my wife will take over tabletops and counterpanes and chair backs as she stretches and hangs and drapes. How much nicer if, like Lady Macbeth, she would stop at frequently rinsing (and wringing) her hands instead of clothes.