England, a nation of clotheshorses

It's been a while since my last entry. The culture shock of nestling back into the Warm Bosom of my Motherland seems to have let my muse reeling somewhat. You'd think that being English I would, in fact, feel comfortable in England, but I find myself having to relearn the basic survival skills.

Take clotheshorses, for example. In the USA where power is artificially cheap, everyone uses a tumble drier on laundry day. The average British urban dweller is too cheap to run one of these, so is forced to dry the week's laundry on a clotheshorse. For my American readers, a clotheshorse is a folding plastic or wooden rack on which damp laundry can be placed to dry out. It sounds simple, but there is a genuine artisanship in arranging the clothes in a fashion that creates space for more than a single shirt, three socks and a pair of underpants. Any overflow must be draped over chairs, and given that there's no real airflow hence it takes about three days to dry anything, it's important to maximize the clotheshorse loading. Most British alcoholics only develop their addiction because for most of the week, the pub is the only place that they can sit down of an evening. That and the fact that if they stayed at home they would be expected to talk to the wife.

Those living in the country and having gardens can use a washing line when the weather is sufficiently clement, but the only people who choose to live in the country with a garden are either ignorant peasants or have families, so obviously I don't mix with them.

Many of my friends have had babies. Normally I would disapprove, but I have suddenly realised that almost all of them have had girls, which implies that about the time that I make professor there will be a glut of female undergraduates.