The Boston Tea Wash

Introducing my new cleaning lady: great for comedic scenes involving pianos and stairs, the odd tea party and those vital "chimp in a toupee" moments...
Less successful at washing your smalls.


Much as I'm loathe to admit it, this whole having had a baby thing may have slightly affected my cerebral abilities. When you're expecting, you hear a lot about how pregnancy and childcare can reduce your IQ and make you act slightly oddly: a bit like a Blairite occupation dumbing-down your brain.

Fortunately in my case there have been no noticeable signs of this. As anyone will tell you, my neurons are still as spangly as a whole pocket full of 5 pence pieces newly delivered from the Royal Mint. And besides, surely everyone puts salt in their coffee, comes on to bus conductors and insists on being called Edith Marie by bemused Saturday girls in Topshop?

Or so I thought. However today I have begun to suspect that my intellect may be not quite as shiny as once it was, and that some of my actions are possibly becoming, well, a bit bizarre.

For there I was, taking a break from motherhood with a relaxing stint on the washing machine, only to be greeted by the puzzling stench of builders and an accompanying cast of slightly damp, sepia-coloured clothing as I opened the door.

30 minutes and an irate call to the Persil Careline later, I discovered the source of the problem. The very earnest Judy in Customer Care had suggested that I might, inadvertently you understand, have put the wrong thing in the wash cycle; thereby causing all my clothes to turn beige and smelly.

To my shame, and Judy's evident distress, I laughed cruelly at her suggestion. But then I spotted the completely unopened box of washing powder sitting alone next to the kettle. I reluctantly checked the machine, and made the discovery that I am, in fact, a complete moron.

For there they were, two bags of PG's finest Tips, sitting in the place usually under bicarbonate occupation: all passion spent, and enjoying a crafty post-coital fag as they chuckled over the wreckage of my clothes.

So, evidently I'd rather rinse my smalls with tea bags than with Persil, and can only conclude that my neurons may have become the tiniest bit smaller since having Lucy. Politeness and common sense demand that I hereby offer the sincerest of apologies to Judy, and steer away from anything more complicated than breathing for the foreseeable future.

Mind you, simpleton or not, every cloud does at least have a lining, and I'm happy to report that my official range of pyramid-shaped clothing launches later this month. Predicted to be huge amongst the tea-party going chimp population, apparently.