“Have we got any washing machine liquid for colours?” asked Ro. “I thought so,” I said, getting up. “So did I,” he said. “I bought it in Waitrose the other week, their own brand” I added helpfully – always good to know what you’re looking for.
When we moved here, beyond the kitchen was a larder, boiler room and a downstairs bathroom for Hilda, my in-laws’ live-in maid (she’d started out as the Sage’s nursemaid and stayed). When my mother moved in next door, her four-poster bed didn’t fit in either of the bedrooms, so we demolished the boiler room and bathroom and built a new bedroom and, since the terms of planning permission included a link between the two dwellings, a small laundry room rather than just a corridor. My mother and I shared it and there is a drain in the floor in case of flooding (a few times bitten in the past).
So I trotted to the other end of the house behind Ro. He picked up a box of sachets. “You see, for whites. I’ll use them if necessary though,” he said. He followed my gaze towards the washing machine. On top was another box. “Oh. Ah. I owe you one. Anything I can do to make up for it?” “I’ll think about it. Maybe let you stew for a bit.” He apologised again. “Happens to us all, no problem.”
He followed me back into the drawing room, with him still talking about how one can not see something right under one’s nose, and went over to the fire. I stood up, having sat down at the computer, and went to shut the door. “Oops,” he said apologetically.
It’s all right. I don’t mind. He’s no trouble really.