the way the wind is blowing – all these things have seeped into my consciousness, and I seem to be more right than wrong these days when I try to predict the weather. Maybe this sixth sense makes up for my lack of green fingers!
One of my customers is actually pegging out her washing as I drive up and head around to the back of her house where I usually leave the post. Her back garden faces the estuary with a breathtaking view of water, sky, woodland on the further shores, rocks and seabirds. The tide is out today and the few boats lie dotted on the sand, as if placed carefully by the Cornish Tourist Information Board to be as picturesque as possible. Even the sea debris – driftwood, clumps of watery turf from the river’s edge, a dollop of seaweed – looks artistically placed on the damp sand, as if to show each to its best advantage. The heron, perched on one leg in the shallows, could have been posing there all morning, waiting for the first day-tripper to come and take its photo.
‘Perfect drying day,’ my customer calls out to me.
We both look up at the cloudless sky, feel the light but brisk breeze on our faces. ‘Yep, perfect! I can’t wait to get home and get my clothes out.’
She nods, a wooden peg clutched between her lips as she hangs out another garment. I approve of wooden pegs. There’s something so satisfyingly old-fashioned about them that adds to the pleasure.
I tell her this and she agrees, removing the peg from her mouth and giving me a big smile. She says, ‘You’ve got to have a proper washing line, too. No whirly things or plastic contraptions.’
We’re really into this now. ‘Oh, I agree,’ I cry. ‘And you should have a peg bag. Preferably something with sentimental value.’
‘I made this one myself,’ she says proudly.
‘That’s very suitable,’ I admire her bag. ‘Mine belonged to my grandmother.’
The next five minutes are spent very happily discussing the advantages of wooden clothes hangers as opposed to plastic, and other such domestic things of fascinating importance, especially when standing in a delightful garden, filled with sea scents and birdsong, on a sunny Cornish spring day. Before I know it, I’ve grabbed a few pegs and together we’re hanging out the rest of her washing, a few more towels, and some large items of bedding. ‘Thanks, Tessa,’ she says as we finish and I start to go. ‘Those sheets and duvet covers are much easier with two.’
I’m humming and singing to myself as I drive along to my next village. Everywhere I look there is washing out on lines; most of my customers seem to be hanging out clothes. I chuckle as I realise that some of these items are familiar to me – I know the owner’s clothes as well as I do them. Dodging the lines as I deliver their post, I know that the baker in one of the villages wears pristine white boxer shorts and has a pair for every day of the week. Today there are six pairs on the line that his wife has hung out – I assume he’s wearing the seventh pair. The female doctor in the same village has extremely sexy lingerie in both black and red. What’s great to see today is how many winter woollens are hanging out on the clothes lines. It’s a sure sign that winter is gone for good – everyone is washing their heavy pullovers and cardigans, putting them away until next year.
When I finish work and arrive home, my new neighbour Kate is outside in her front garden talking to a tall man with wild-looking hair. As I get nearer, I see that it’s Guy. He and Kate are talking earnestly and while they talk, Guy nods and sometimes takes notes in a scrappy little notebook I’ve seen him carry around. Alongside his voluntary work for the Cat Protection Service, Guy, though a skilled carpenter, earns his rather precarious living doing odd jobs in many of the villages, as commissions for carpentry work are hard to come by. I guess that Kate has some employment for him, which he’ll be glad of.
Kate calls
One of my customers is actually pegging out her washing as I drive up and head around to the back of her house where I usually leave the post. Her back garden faces the estuary with a breathtaking view of water, sky, woodland on the further shores, rocks and seabirds. The tide is out today and the few boats lie dotted on the sand, as if placed carefully by the Cornish Tourist Information Board to be as picturesque as possible. Even the sea debris – driftwood, clumps of watery turf from the river’s edge, a dollop of seaweed – looks artistically placed on the damp sand, as if to show each to its best advantage. The heron, perched on one leg in the shallows, could have been posing there all morning, waiting for the first day-tripper to come and take its photo.
‘Perfect drying day,’ my customer calls out to me.
We both look up at the cloudless sky, feel the light but brisk breeze on our faces. ‘Yep, perfect! I can’t wait to get home and get my clothes out.’
She nods, a wooden peg clutched between her lips as she hangs out another garment. I approve of wooden pegs. There’s something so satisfyingly old-fashioned about them that adds to the pleasure.
I tell her this and she agrees, removing the peg from her mouth and giving me a big smile. She says, ‘You’ve got to have a proper washing line, too. No whirly things or plastic contraptions.’
We’re really into this now. ‘Oh, I agree,’ I cry. ‘And you should have a peg bag. Preferably something with sentimental value.’
‘I made this one myself,’ she says proudly.
‘That’s very suitable,’ I admire her bag. ‘Mine belonged to my grandmother.’
The next five minutes are spent very happily discussing the advantages of wooden clothes hangers as opposed to plastic, and other such domestic things of fascinating importance, especially when standing in a delightful garden, filled with sea scents and birdsong, on a sunny Cornish spring day. Before I know it, I’ve grabbed a few pegs and together we’re hanging out the rest of her washing, a few more towels, and some large items of bedding. ‘Thanks, Tessa,’ she says as we finish and I start to go. ‘Those sheets and duvet covers are much easier with two.’
I’m humming and singing to myself as I drive along to my next village. Everywhere I look there is washing out on lines; most of my customers seem to be hanging out clothes. I chuckle as I realise that some of these items are familiar to me – I know the owner’s clothes as well as I do them. Dodging the lines as I deliver their post, I know that the baker in one of the villages wears pristine white boxer shorts and has a pair for every day of the week. Today there are six pairs on the line that his wife has hung out – I assume he’s wearing the seventh pair. The female doctor in the same village has extremely sexy lingerie in both black and red. What’s great to see today is how many winter woollens are hanging out on the clothes lines. It’s a sure sign that winter is gone for good – everyone is washing their heavy pullovers and cardigans, putting them away until next year.
When I finish work and arrive home, my new neighbour Kate is outside in her front garden talking to a tall man with wild-looking hair. As I get nearer, I see that it’s Guy. He and Kate are talking earnestly and while they talk, Guy nods and sometimes takes notes in a scrappy little notebook I’ve seen him carry around. Alongside his voluntary work for the Cat Protection Service, Guy, though a skilled carpenter, earns his rather precarious living doing odd jobs in many of the villages, as commissions for carpentry work are hard to come by. I guess that Kate has some employment for him, which he’ll be glad of.
Kate calls
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