A letter to my Husband…

Nina Austen - 24 Oct 17

Dearest Husband,

Let me start this letter by stating, for the record, that I love you very much. I am grateful for you every minute of every hour of every day. You are my partner, my kindred and – not to be all Game of Thrones about it – my sun and stars.

You have given me 2 wonderful, spirited children. You provide and care for us in our lovely home and you a super hands-on Daddy, making sure you are here for every bedtime and bathtime. I know how lucky I am to have such a beautiful, funny and intelligent husband.

So why, oh why, can you not locate the fucking washing basket?

I’ve mused over this for the past sixteen years. Sometimes whilst in the midst of the weekly washing storm, sometimes whilst reading the works of Dostoevsky and sometimes when picking up pants for the 3,486 that week. How can the washing basket be so elusive? How can you be so close and yet so far?

For clarity and to fully demonstrate what I’m talking about, please see the photograph below.

Please note, the grey washing basket on the right. Do you see it? If you’re having any trouble, find the pile of clothes on the floor, and then look ever so slightly up. There it is! See! It’s just like Where’s Wally, but instead of loads of stuff/ people and a tiny little man, there is space and a sizable prominent washing basket.

Now before you accuse me of being picky – this is just today’s example. I could montage the shit out of this, with multiple pics on multiple days. It could be a mood board for a jumble sale. This poor, ignored basket could have it’s own Instagram account. #basketshavefeelingstoo #wontyoufillmein

I’ve thought long and hard and I can only assume that you choose to pop your dirty clothes on the floor, RIGHT NEXT TO THE FUCKING BASKET, for the following reasons:

1 – You just can’t see it.

Maybe this particular item from reputable retailers Marks & Spencer slipped through the net at quality control. Maybe a warehouse wizard did some Harry Potter shit on it to render it invisible to men and children (I fear the kids have inherited your aversion).

Maybe it has been the recipient of a Disillusionment Charm, hidden from the world around it, as evasive as Donald Trump’s morals. Just in case, I’ve tried Googling incantations that can make it visible once again. I’ve placed an Amazon order for some high vis tape and a giant bastarding light up arrow to place above it, to really bring it to your attention and into the line of sight.

2 – It has done something to offend you. 

You’re a pretty robust chap. You don’t get upset easily by other people’s opinions, and you’re not particularly sensitive, as I’ve been wrongly accused of being on occasion (except it really wasn’t what you said, but how you said it). So I can only assume that said basket has been a right twat to cause this prolonged stand off.

Maybe it voted Leave? Maybe it said some unsavory things about your Mum? Maybe it likes pineapple on its pizza, the dirty bastard. Whatever it is, I am happy to act as mediator and create a safe time and space for you two to get together and sort this shit out. Everything can be talked through. In the words of Lennon and McCartney, we can work it out.

3 – You’re creatively creating a carpet. 

Since I’ve left work to become a Stay at home Mum, our budget has taken a bit of a hit. Belts have been tightened. Budgeting apps have been downloaded. Amazon Prime even emailed the other day to ask ‘U OK Hun?’ as our incessant ordering has ceased. They’re going to over the moon with the high vis/ arrow order (see point 1).

The offending washing basket sits on a wooden floor and so I wonder, are you trying to save some money and create a makeshift carpet? If so it must be getting pretty pissing annoying that I keep moving your clothes into the basket. So, here is a tip: the slippers on the left of the basket can create the feeling of warmth and comfort WHEREVER you go in the house. No need for a faux carpet, just pop them on and voila! Sorted.

4 – You’ve mistaken the washing basket for a table. 

I appreciate your bedside table is fairly small and is currently occupied with half-empty water bottles and 2 partially read books on Capitalism/ Gandhi (that book is your Waterloo). There is little space for anything else.

That must be why I found your camera, 2 kids frisbees and a broken kite on the washing basket the other day. Sure, those objects don’t belong there but what are you supposed to do, put them back where they belong and can be easily located in the future? Who has time for that shit, right?

I get it –  if you can’t easily access the lid of the basket, how the bloody hell can you transport clothes from your body straight into it. Don’t worry sweetheart, I’ve found a workaround and moved the aforementioned items (they’re in your pillowcase) and removed the top of the basket. Hopefully, the lack of a table top will help you to remember that this is a vessel for dirty clothes and not somewhere else to dump stuff.

Phew. You can breathe a sigh of relief.  I’ve covered all bases and provided solutions if some or all of the above are the reasons why you choose to leave your clothes but centimeters from their spiritual home. No need to thank me honey. I live for this shit.

I hope this letter serves as a helpful guide and can heal the wounds that the years of washing basket avoidance has created. Also, I just wanted to let you know that we need to budget for some serious physio, as my back is buggered from angrily bending down to retrieve your washing and then shoving it into the basket with the force of about 3 G’s.

To allow you to focus on the matter at hand I will leave it there. However, at some point we also need to discuss the important yet tricky issues of why JUST putting washing in the washing machine is NOT doing the washing, and how toilet rolls get changed. Spoiler – not by magic fairies or Andrex puppies.

Good luck my darling. I know we can get through this. I’ve got your back, even though I just no longer have the full range of movement in mine.

Love you always.

x

P.S. Put your clothes in the fucking basket.

Nina Austen

Gaa Gaa Land is a collection of ramblings from a stay at home mum of two. Although said ramblings might veer into the serious from time to time, this blog is largely satire. GGL uses humour, irony and exaggeration to amplify this crazy parenting ride, but everything is from real life. It’s all true. Even the embarrassing bits. N is in her mid late thirties and enjoys writing, F1, early 2000’s UK Gladiators, picking play doh out of her hair, cooking, Game of Thrones, stationary, innuendo and swearing. She loves her kids, husband, friends, the Dalai Lama, Bjork and is partial to a Cliff Richard calendar (classic examples of brilliance – 1996 and 2010). She also thinks it’s weird writing in the third person.

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