I stagger across the square with a laundry basket on my hip. The washing machine has busted, a month after its first birthday and year's warranty. I am grateful Mrs Bancroft is on the Grand Tour because I can sneak in and use her very sleek and silent washing machine while she is away.
It purrs like a very quiet cat, unlike my Hoover which made so much bloody noise the other night when it was spinning Mr Grigg's boxers I thought it was the Hadron Collider. An imprint on the outside suggested a very solid alien inside desperately attempting to escape. I checked to make sure the pets were all accounted for and then rang the Hoover man.
This morning, he inspects the machine and tells me a large bolt has sheered off inside. I now have to wait another week for it to be fixed.
I wander across the road in the rain with my washing basket, looking out for stray Porsches. If it's a deliciously-sounding throaty engine, it'll be Mrs Chocs-Away. Or it could be a local builder whose smile takes up the entire windscreen. I want to avoid being run over by Celebrity Farmer in his babe magnet. Those of the jealous variety dismiss his new toy as being made up of two different cars joined in the middle.
'And, besides,' says one. 'The Porsche Boxter is a girl's car.'
Celeb has so far avoided the obvious accessory of a self-obsessed teenage airhead in the front seat (not for want of trying, I may add). As you know, he has instead taken his lovely and wise gran (90+) out for a spin. Although if he ever ends up with jailbait he could always escape dressed as a washerwoman.
That's about it
Love Maddie x
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