JO DAVISON - Washing is all white after tea escapade
The young are a nation of laundry illiterates, one of those surveys which would be completely pointless if it wasn't promoting the sale of stain removers has revealed.
Over 400 million worth of clothes are ruined every year by imbeciles who can't work out the difference between a boil wash and a low temperature, or a black T-shirt from a white T-shirt.
The under 25s are the worst; they don't even bother to read washing instruction labels because, while they can work a computer faster than you can write http://www. and understand any make or model of mobile phone they pick up, they cannot fathom what those little symbols mean.
How thick can you get, says the woman who had to learn how to do her own washing at 17.
There was only my dad around and I soon got sick of him ruining the clothes I'd slaved Saturdays at Bruce's Burger Bar to afford. I still mourn a cream, V-backed angora sweater which ended up the size of a postage stamp.
It was probably all a ploy on his part, but it worked. I discovered all you had to do was sort darks from lights and only ever use one of two wash programmes (why do the manufacturers strive to confuse us with more than that?)
But on Saturday, my unblemished reputation was finally besmirched. I pulled a lights load from the machine to discover everything looked grubbier than when it went in. Bloke was at my elbow as I discovered his two best shirts had fared the worst.
Each sported huge and vile earthy underarm stains. "My God," said the horrified husband, subconsciously patting his hairy pits to see if they had suddenly sprung almighty brown leaks like a pair of rusty watering cans. "I didn't sweat THAT much last week."
We were totally perplexed. Until I found the little canvas bag-for-life thing I take my lunch to work in.
Nestling at its bottom were three teabags. My washing machine had become a giant teapot. Having brewed at 30 deg. C for some 90 minutes, the teabags were tannin-free and several shades lighter than the stewed washing.
Peculiarly, though, there seemed to have been a strange chemical reaction in armpit areas. A combination of sweat and deodorant must have grabbed the Tetley's and refused to let go.
I may be a laundry ignoramus again, but I am from Rotherham and therefore not of the 37 per cent of women who throw away ruined laundry rather than attempt to salvage it.
I washed the load thrice. I tried two expensive stain removers, one of which my neighbour claimed was so strong it had burned a hole in her jeans (by that time, I didn't care for consequences).
Nothing touched the stains, which doesn't say much for the lining of a tea-drinker's stomach.
Fearing I was going to have to fork out for new clothes that weren't for me, I chucked them in a bowl with a dash of bleach. Thruppence-ha'penny and it worked a treat.
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Friday 10 February 2012
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