The aesthetics of laundry

Washing line line up.

I had a theatre lodger once, in my old house in Bristol, who said he was surprised that I had whirligig washing line as he didn’t think I was that sort of person. I am not sure what he meant by that exactly but it was clear that it wasn’t good, in his mind, to be ‘that’ sort of person. He was an extremely odd sort of person himself, who would come in very late and drunk and stumble about the house in a very unnerving fashion, make a mess and then more mess in an an attempt to clear it up. I had many lodgers through the theatres of Bristol over the years - they are absolute lodger gold, being out every evening and always temporary. Nearly all of them were wonderful and brought fun theatrical tales and cheap, sometimes free, tickets to their shows with them. Two were awful, he was one of them.

Prior to the whirligig I had a long line strung between a tree that was growing too close to the house and a tree that was at the other end of the very long, thin garden. On this long line I would arrange my clean laundry to dry in the most aesthetically pleasing way I could. I had visions of white sheets flapping gently in the sunshine and warm breeze, like in all the films where hanging the laundry becomes a moment of reunion, or disappointment on a grand scale, but they rarely came to anything as the garden was quite shady and my sheets were all sorts of colours. I would however make sure it was a colourful and interesting line up, pleasing to my eye, the greying bras and odd socks tucked away at the end, hanging in their shame where no one could see them.

One of my earliest memories is of my mother hanging out laundry, in just exactly that kind of film set way (although not involving a reunion or grand disappointment), white sheets blowing in the Yorkshire breeze, me running into them, arms outstretched, smelling that unmistakeable scent and playing hide and seek with myself in their folds. I asked her how old I would be on my next birthday which was just coming up; she answered that I was going to be four.

I don’t know why I became so focussed on hanging laundry this way ( though I suspect that I am not entirely alone in this… am I?), no one else saw it and if they did they were not struck by the beauty of it in the way I was. I think it was possibly the combination of the colours, the pattern made by the way the clothes hung, and knowledge of the crisp, clean and heavenly smelling clothes and bed linen to bury my face in later that combined into a thing I just loved.

Sadly the trees had to be cut down and I didn’t know how to sink a post into the ground so I bought a whirligig and sank that into the ground, then propped it up with stones and twigs until it was more or less upright. I hadn’t realised you were supposed to dig a hole, fill it with wet concrete, then when it was nearly set, and only then, sink the whirligig holder into that. Anyway, that was the end of my laundry line line up.

When we arrived in the Wales house there was some mouldy bits of washing line in odd places, but none usable. Where to put a long washing line became a niggle of a worry until I got a grip and remembered there was only about three days of the year you can put washing out here anyway, and the whirligig had come with us and was definitely somewhere.

So I erected the old the spinner once more, happy to be ‘that’ sort of person, wedged it in fairly firmly with more rocks and a lovely wedge shaped piece of wood that could have been designed just for that purpose. The aesthetics of the hung items are not the same same on a spinner (I’m getting tired of writing whirligig with two fingers, it’s quite an annoying word, even if it was one of my son’s first. We were at Womad in 1995 and he became entranced by the ‘wullygug’ tent, with its spinning lights and rhythmic music), but my joy remains.

Some may think it’s a bit silly to get so much joy out of clean laundry, but then I think we should take joy wherever we can find it. As I type this I am sitting outside with the sun on my bare back. I have clean sheets to collect in about half an hour and the top bit of my back is slowly going golden brown, possibly burning, which, after the never-ending-winter, is heaven. I have been to the dentist, which I was dreading and, although it was every bit as horrible as I imagined, it’s now over and my mouth is no longer numb. I have done some good writing work and I am doing some more, right here. Also the sunflowers have totally paid their rent by blooming like nutters, finally.

So, there we have it. Domestic bliss.

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I am not sure anyone reading this needs a recipe for potato salad but sometimes it’s nice just to be nudged into an idea and this is a perfect salad for today or any other sunny day. We have gorgeous new potatoes here Ceredigion (which is next door to Pembrokeshire so I can still claim the potatoes as ours), as good as Jersey Royals any day.

Pembrokeshire New Potato Salad

serves 4-6

• 1 kg new potatoes

• 250g or a a good handful of frozen peas, defrosted but not cooked (you could use blanched green beans and or heavenly broad beans instead, or as well - salad maker’s choice)

• 2-3 spring onions, finely chopped (or half finely chopped red onion)

• 1 small bunch each of mint and basil, leaves picked and chopped roughly (you could use lots of fresh dill and parsley as an alternative)

• 2 tbsp mayonnaise

• 1 tbsp plain yoghurt

• Juice of half a lemon

• Salt & pepper

Cook the potatoes until tender and drain.

While still warm add all the other ingredients and mix well.

Industrial scale version of this delicious summery salad.