Wringing changes over washing day

SHOPPING for clothes with my nine-year-old granddaughter, I heard her say: ‘Once that dress goes through Mum’s wash, it will shrink.’ I had to laugh, because that was history repeating itself. Over the years, I have had many washing disasters. I can’t remember how many school uniforms I have shrunk in rogue washing machines or white shirts that I have turned pink. I remember my mother struggling with her washing in the Forties. She had a copper boiler that was heated by gas. Every Monday morning, steam filled the kitchen. She had a wooden mangle in the garden. Later, she progressed to an electric single tub washer with a wringer over it. It was filled from the hot tap. Whites went in first and, in the final wash, in the same water, went the dark colours. My school navy blue gym knickers were always covered in fluff, and I was mortified. Then came a twin tub with a spin drier. The kitchen floor was a sea of soap suds as she transferred clothes between the tubs with wooden tongs. In the Seventies, the first front-loading automatic washing machines did not wash well because there was not much of a choice of low-suds washing powders. As a young mum, I used my automatic washer for the terry nappies. After two babies, the nappies were only fit for dusters. Some of my peers still had pristine nappies because they washed them by hand and used a Baby Burco boiler. I never felt excited at the sight of clothes drying on the line. What bliss when I could finally afford to buy and run a tumble drier! No more long treks to the launderette or soggy washing hanging on radiators. As a child, I was expected to wear my clothes for days. Modern fabrics and machines might make washing easier, but in my daughters’ homes, clothes seem to be worn for a few hours, then washed. The results are numerous baskets of washing that have to be put away. No machine for that yet. Guess who gets that job! At least I can’t do much harm. Christine Goldstone,

Chelmsford, Essex.