It’s Saturday, 4th November, am thinking rain, fireworks and sparklers yet pondering over the washing powder that these two chirpy young delivery men have bought me. (As you can see from the clock I haven’t put it back from last Sunday because it keeps us all on top of things and Tesco Delivery are even less likely to be late.)
There has been a lot in the press this week about washing machines catching on fire. I was aware of this a long time ago when I wrote one of my first poems published in my first anthology “Tales in the Deep End”, even Amazon have a 2nd hand copy of this unique book which includes tales of assault by a charity London marathon runner dressed as a St Trinian’s girl with false bosoms, wig and hockey stick to yogic internal cleansing poetry and illustration.
Separation and Anxiety
My washing machine caught on fire
I will never leave it on its own again
People laughed when I performed this wearing a swimming hat, but as usual, this poem had come from my personal distress and PTSD and OCD around washing machines. I used to pay the babysitter an extra 50p an hour to keep an eye on it.
