On Monday dad and Julia came up with the grand idea that I should learn how to do my own washing, as then I could be more independent. Apparently, clothes don’t clean themselves after all – I had always been lead to believe that, if you threw them into the bag in the corner of the room, a few days later they would be transported back into the wardrobe, cleaned and folded mid-flow.
I was wrong, as this morning dad showed me a big white box in the garage with knobs on the top. At first I thought it was a primitive computer, but then turned two of the knobs and opened the lid: there wasn’t a circuit board in sight, but a big bowl with a spindle in the middle. Into this dad put some odd-smelling powder, and then asked me to put all the clothes from my bag into it too.
This was very boring work and meant a lot of lifting and dropping. I am not designed for such things – I was meant for more scholarly stuff, not the lifting and dropping of clothes into big white boxes! This is what one has a slave – sorry, PA for. Its silly. I’m an artist, not a clothes crane.
I prefer my idea of transporters! There are no silly powders or liquids in that – and how do they expect me to handle those anyway? I can barely control toothpaste. Mind you, I did get to poke the clothes with a stick, which was cool.
Washing machines indeed. Humbug. Now, if you’ll excuse me I have Freud’s 1917 treatise on the uncanny to finish reading.