washing

It is Sunday, read the news, it is not worth it. Politics is about power, not justice, and when the people in power talk about justice and those not in power talk about power and it's abuse then the arguments will never meet.
Go into the passageway from the bedroom to the closed verandah in front of the bathroom, pick up a grey washing basket and go up the stairs to the attic. The washing is up there, hanging on it's lines. Down at the far end of the attic there is the washing hanging since last week, the t shirts socks underpants pullovers and trousers from the week before last. Fill up the grey basket, and return to the warmth of the bedroom. Free a space on the end of the bed, and empty the washing basket onto the bed. The predominate color is black. It rests there like a mound of accusations, saying that it needs to be folded and tidied, sorted and checked.
Take the basket to the bathroom, open the washing machine, and take out the wet clothing, the clothing that has been there since last night. Close the door of the damp front loader, and take the square grey plastic basket back upstairs to the attic. And at the end of the attic hang up the clothes, now washed, that had been worn the week before. No shirts, but everything else. The heavy winter trousers, all the socks and Tee shirts, the things that will be clean enough to wear after a few hours in the washing machine.

After the basket has been returned to it's place in the passage, go into the bedroom, start to sort the small heap of clothing there. Fold the Tee shirts, and place the trousers over the back of a chair for ironing later.
And last of all, put the socks together in pairs, disposing of one pair in the waste basket because they are no more than a network of holes.