Hanging clothes out to dry is not a task to be taken lightly. Oh no. First of all, it must be done while the coffee percolates in the filter. First thing in the morning. The clothes have to be sorted out in to piles. Inner wear, outerwear, mine, his, baby’s, towels, socks and the occasional 10p coin. Oh the joy in finding a 10p coin. The clothes must then be hung out on the stand in a predetermined order. Inner wear on the bottom most, inner most rung. It wouldn’t do to have the neighbours catch sight of my granny pants. I am anal about the way clothes are hung to dry. They might not dry as well or as quickly if they were hung up in any other way. Sometimes I hate it, this need to do every thing a certain way. it must all be just so. My systems are restrictive and chafing at times, like a size 8 dress you buy even though you know you are a 14. Some days I let my husband hang the clothes out to dry. But every time I walk past the damn stand I feel like gouging my eyes out. Shirts sloppily layered over handkerchiefs. And my underwear fluttering on the top most line. I have no choice but to do it again on these days. I mutter to myself ‘Do I have to do every thing around here myself? How hard is it to follow a predetermined system?’ I can see the look of pity in his eyes. And wonder what would be easier – hanging myself with his silk tie or strangling him with it.