how mundane can it get?

The washing has built up to alarming proportions.
When we got home last night, I realised no one had done any and the everyone had filled up the available baskets and bathroom corners.
So I started.
I sorted.
Colours and lights.
Pants and bedding.
Spots and stripes, flecks, straight, sensible and frivilous.
Quite therapeutic really.
A's little nothings, S's duvet. E's cute jeans. tens of multi coloured socks.
How will they ever be partnered up again, even after drying?
The cats look on with an eye on the open door to the kitchen.
How did our grannies do all this by hand?
It's not even the washing and drying, the problem lies in the putting away.
There is just not enough room in my cupboards for everything to be clean and put away.
Lightbulb moment.
Either I declutter or I don't wash everything all at once.

I remember the warm soapy smell of Ma's 50's top loader. The rubber wringers
and the metal tub. the clean washing strung across the street and the pride taken in how it looked.
Her purple flowery dress. So glamourous.
Was it always sunny then?