Washer Woman

The washing machine died. It didn't just stop working. Oh no. First it let me strip all the beds, load it up with lots of towels and jeans, filled itself with water and then it stopped working.

When I finally managed to get the laundry back out of it again it had started to smell a bit funny. Being a bit of a clean freak I couldn't bear it, so finished the load of washing by hand, in the bath tub.

Wet towels and jeans are amazingly heavy when you can't spin dry them. I actually sprained my wrist, and not in a fun way. As I pegged out my exceptionally soggy washing in the hope it would drip dry (and in a state of anxiety in case the line snapped and all my back breaking labour ended up in the duck shit) I had a flash of inspiration. There are numerous holiday cottages on the estate, surely there'd be one with a washing machine. If I was lucky, there may be an unoccupied one with a washing machine!

I was lucky! The cottage was a mile and a half up the road, but that was still better than having to wash all my kit by hand, in the bath.

So that is why I have been a little quiet this week, on the blogging front. I have been spending all my spare time trekking up and down the road with my baskets of washing. I have been on a mission to wash as much as possible before the holiday cottage is occupied again tomorrow, in the hope we will then all have enough clean knickers to last until the new machine arrives.

But is it art?

I received an email informing me that the Learning Officer would be organising a two day art partnership event, with an artist present both days to work with the visiting school classes. Felt making and sculpture, it said.

The days it was due to happen coincided with my days off. On the morning of the first day I encountered Lovely Warden on site, as I walked the dog. He had just pounded in an avenue of fence posts in the orchards, as per the instructions of our Learning Officer.

"What's all this for?" he asked me.

I explained about the art and sculpture thing.

"But what are these posts for?"

I shrugged. I had no idea.

Bidding him farewell I made good my escape for the rest of the day. When I returned I boggled at the sight before me. That couldn't be it, surely? Maybe it wasn't finished yet.

I went out again on the second day. I returned later that evening and, yes, that really was it. After two days, and at great expense, having involved the time and labour of Lovely Warden to install numerous fence posts and hiring the talents of a professional artist, the end result was a collection of tattered tramp beards on a line, slap bang in front of the house, ruining the view.



And no matter which angle I looked at it from, it didn't get any better. No amazing sculpture revealed itself.

Still, that night the big storm came and the next morning only the posts remained. How very fortuitous.