It’s the year 2007. We have the Internet, high definition TV, self-cleaning ovens and hybrid cars.
But in spite of all these wondrous advancements that make the life of modern people easier, there remains one savage, brutal and ghastly task. One activity that has not developed over the ages; one that has not become easier.
If you have not guessed already, I am talking about the demonic task of laundry. Laundry at the laundro-mat. Even the barbaric Mayans had no such ruthless ritual of laundry at the laundro-mat. Look away now if you are of a nervous disposition.
Laundry. I used to enjoy it. But no more. Each visit to the laundro-mat results in penance. In sacrifice.
And the high priestesses of washing (women) leave us peasants (men) in ignorance.
Ask a question to a high priestess and she will give you an answer in a language none of us understand; the language of Colour, Softener and Spin Cycle.
Now, please understand, I am not being chauvinistic. I believe that women, still to this day, have had to work harder than men to achieve. But, perhaps in silent revenge, they have made a pact with women all over the planet, to – much like the Freemasons – keep the proper ritual and practice of laundry secret.
The result is catastrophic. Men, like me, are forced to sacrifice many socks (only one at a time, mind), colours and shapes per visit to the laundro-mat.
I think the god (who is not really a god, just someone with lots of mismatching socks) of laundry is well pleased with the feed after each of my visits.
My visits to the altar - the Wishee Washee as it is called colloquially – are almost always a plight against despair. Other men gather, too. There’s almost always a priestess there. With a knowing glare, a book which she pretends to read, and I think a hidden camera.
The men know of her powers. Of her strength. But our inert will to succeed (some call it stupidity) prevent us from asking the priestess for wisdom. We men look amongst each other. The question is obvious. What temperature?
A magical coin is extracted from one of the peasant’s pockets. Well, let’s see. There is a selection of 5 temperatures on the washing machine. 20 is too cold. And surely 80 is too hot. We want clean clothes, not boiled potatoes. And so we take the difference between the two and end up with a choice of 40 or 60. The magic coin is flipped, heads it’s 40 and so on.
Our first challenge is passed. Or is it? The priestess pretends not to notice our endeavours. She makes no comment, but exhales a series of “Pfhmss” and “Tsk, tsks” just to try and make us loose concentration, I believe.
We are unwavering. Next it’s to decide where to actually pour the powder. And what if you have powder blocks? What are you supposed to do then?
Tears well up in one of the men’s eyes. The pressure is too great. He breaks rank and looks to the priestess. She points slowly to the East. Which is more or less in the direction of the pictorial instructions that are hung from the wall. Blasted. Instructions.
We can tell the look in her eyes. She thinks we are idiots. She knows much.
Next we proceed to put our washing in. I feel brave. I put everything together. I want to get out of the hellish place as fast as possible, so I make no separation. “It don’t matter if you’re black or white” as the song goes.
I can feel the eyes of the high priestess down the back of my neck. I break out in a cold sweat.
The other men, sensing her displeasure, have bolted.
She clears her throat with a giggle and proceeds to say nothing.
The machine speaks to me. As soon as I close and lock the door, it says “38 minutes” until the cycle of death is completed.
It is at this point that the black magic bursts forth from the deepest crevices of hell, and – without opening the door of the machine – internally combusts each and every item of clothing within.
Water and powder cannot produce such chaotic effect. No. A darker force is at work here.
If you can, stay away. The Wishee-Washee is no place for men.