87. Sun-Dried Washing

In the darkest days of last winter, when we had been shivering for months and we spoke to each other in whispers about feeling the warmth of the sun on our skin, one of the most frustrating daily discomforts was getting the washing dry. Herself refused to allow me to ruin us by using the dryer, so our clothes hung from the drying rack in front of the radiator for DAYS, obstinately refusing to achieve any status beyond, 'That might be dry, I can't tell. It's cold, my hands are cold, the room is cold.' I stomped about the place in as much wool and cashmere as I could fit on my body, thinking nervously about soldiers in the first world war and the ticks and lice they got as a result of never washing their clothes. Ultimately, I decided some extra wildlife might help keep me warm.

Fast forward six months, into the days we hardly dared speak or dream of back then - pure blue skies, bright sunshine and warm dry breezes. The washing, no longer heavy with winter woollens, dries in two hours and carries with it a scent of summer. We trip about the place in cotton and linen, a blush of colour in our cheeks and on our forearms, smug and proud in our rarely-used sunglasses, drinking lager on pavements, faces tilted to the evening sun.

Little children scream with laughter in the playground, the washing flaps gently in the breeze, the goldfinches and greenfinches and wood pigeons chirrup and coo, and winter feels like another country. Long may it last.