Like many parents, my life is lived through laundry. It sprouts from every corner of the house in various pending files; the hampers of clean laundry waiting to be put away, the colour sorted piles awaiting washing, the random discards in between. Considering how rarely anyone is suitably attired for any occasion, it is a complete mystery why this should be such a full time job.
I nab him as he flits by, “excuse me young man! What do you think you are wearing?” He hops in place, anxious to move on with several armfuls of trouser gathered at his waist. “I am be wear pant.”
“I can see that.” He looks at me blankly whilst trying to free his feet from several yards of surplus fabric. “They're not yours dear.”
“They're huge! Look!”
“Dey are be soft.”
“Er……..we are not be use dah 'mine' word.”
“You are not be a good sharer wiv me?” He skates away without a backward glance at my de-hoisted petard.
I give up.
At least he's clothed in a manner of speaking.
Cut and paste
from this little
boxy thing below