There was a time when the beat of this house was defined by the steady thud of wet clothes against a glass door. Every morning the large washing hamper, that I swore was empty at teatime the day before, suddenly became full. To the brim. The poor washing machine, barely able to catch its breath, was activated to start labouring through yet another spin cycle. I won’t even mention the ironing.

These days, the basket is seldom full and the washing machine is seemingly enjoying semi-retirement. I can’t remember where I put the iron but I’m sure it’ll turn up before too long.

I really miss the sounds of the chore that I once resented.