Hunter Davies on the dangers of washing woollens
Our columnist does not understand why his partner is so cross. All he did was put his new pullover in the washing machine.
Image credit: MH Jeeves
Our columnist does not understand why his partner is so cross. All he did was put his new pullover in the washing machine.
Miranda is furious with me. I walked into the kitchen and her glare practically froze me.
"What on earth have you done?"
"What, me? Nothing. I’ve just got up, got dressed and walked down the stairs. Now here I am, as lovely as ever."
"You have ruined your new pullover."
I had to check I had it on. Yes, the pink cashmere one she bought me a couple of weeks ago – £10 from a charity shop, but very smart. Pink is the colour of unconditional love, so she told me. And now you have mucked it all up.
"You must have put it in the washing machine."
"What? Me? Washing machine?"
"I told you not to. You never put woollens in a washing machine. You must hand wash them. How often do I have to tell you? Here, take it off."
She grabbed it and did some heavy stretching, pulling and pummelling. She reminded me of Pansy Potter: The Strongman’s Daughter from The Beano. Or was it The Dandy?
The pullover had turned lumpy. It was so nice and soft when she bought it for me. Now it was like cardboard. Oh God, what have I done?
Since my wife died eight years ago, I’ve learned how the cooker works, as well as the oven and washing machine. In 55 years of marriage, I did nothing in the house. I now like to think I am a domestic god. I explained I’ve always put pullovers in the washing machine. Not my fault.
This pink one has been much admired. Passers-by on the heath have said they like the colour. Since meeting Miranda, I’ve tried to look brighter, artier. Most old people – most Brits, in fact – wear such drab clothing. Ugh.
I now rather fancy myself in my yellow Isle of Wight yacht club corduroys, red scarf, red shirt, white trainers and pink pullover. Quite the bobby-dazzler.
Alas, yesterday I dropped some of my breakfast on the pullover: muesli, which I make myself. I’m such a messy eater, always have been. I realised I’d better wash it before Miranda arrived. It had felt a bit tight this morning, but I put that down to increased weight.
Now I realise it had clearly shrunk in the wash. Silly me! Now, where should we walk?
"You are not going out in that!"
My dear late wife Margaret was always trying to get me to smarten up. She hated my favourite brown shoes, which are worn at the heel and have holes at the side.
"Why can’t you look like Melvyn?" she would say.
She was always wanting me to dress like Melvyn Bragg. He does have such lovely jackets and handmade shoes. We have known him for 60 years, since we all came to London from Cumbria.
He did look a bit scruffy when young, fresh out of Wigton, but became immaculate once he hit London. Unlike me.
Women do have this need to have their men folk looking half decent. I guess it’s a reflection on them if their loved ones look presentable.
I remember when our son Jake got a degree from university. The thrill for Margaret was not the graduation ceremony but seeing him in a suit. She practically swooned.
Honestly, I do try. I have brightened up since meeting Miranda, but I just can’t keep things clean. Wearing the same items for weeks on end does not help.
But come on, I am frightfully busy. I have got football to watch, newspapers to read. Give me a break, pet.
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