Whitterer on Autism

Laundry, laundry everywhere and not such much as a pair of clean undies in sight. It would appear that the world has conspired against me. Soon a blanket ‘no clothes’ policy will be mandatory.

It all starts off well and good, but during the course of the day the full hampers are emptied, although how they managed to dump it all on the Christmas tree I have no idea. The hampers become boats as they sail away down the river or careen down the stairs.

My daughter and friends return from their adventure, stained with oil and mud splatters.

Quite soon I shall have to adopt Nonna’s campaign. Nonna shares her room with an oversized fus ball table. Her closet and hangers are bare. Instead the handles of the game are draped with her clothing, categorized for ease of use:- worn once for a few seconds which therefore does not need washing, worn for an hour, worn for less than half a day, worn for an indeterminate period of time that we can’t quite remember now, but better err on the side of caution. Quite bewildering but since it’s a system that minimizes laundry I’m suddenly all for it.

My sons vie over certain items of clothing that most resemble a Mario costume. As food consumption increases, diets broaden but fine motor skills lag behind, we find that clothing stained and soggy is abandoned after each meal, three times a day or possibly five, if snacks are unduly sloppy.

I blame the chef myself.

I stack the laundry in heaps piled high on the drier, in a weak attempt to foil those who would do me wrong. After less than a single day, it is an unwieldy health hazard that threatens to unravel and bury a victim in an avalanche of clothing. I lay the white cotton shirts on the top, delicately, because I am allergic to ironing, shut the door and set about other equally pressing tasks such as what to cook for ten for dinner and the exact location of the toilet plunger.

Fortune smiles upon me such that I find both the nak.ed brothers and the toilet plunger in the same location, the stairs. I point out that “Daleks” always wear their outer casing for protection, as a toilet plunger is generally considered inadequate when it comes to world domination and the elimination of the human race. I confirm that to the best of my knowledge, “Daleks’” preferred diet definitely includes a large proportion of vegetables.

I leave them to play and stomp back downstairs to hunt down a suitable, but nonetheless handy, hiding place for the most important toilet tool I possess. Is there anyone else on the planet that uses one every day? Who else has to rescue so many foreign objects from an innocent and really quite dull toilet bowl? Why is the sink so much less attractive than a toilet, especially when it is set at a far more convenient height?

What can I cook to go with the vegetables?

As I pass through the dimly lit utility room, I notice something blinky and sparkly high up on the teetering tower of neatly folded laundry. As I reach up to dislodge the fur ball cat from his new warm nest, he decides to abandon ship with full force, sending the mountain cascading down upon me.

Tonight’s menu:-
Vegetables and Fried Feline fritters.