My washing machine has finally given up the ghost – a poltergeist, really, judging by the deafening din it makes – and I am in the market for a replacement.
Am I being odd for feeling a small thrill at the prospect? I must confess to a mild obsession with laundry. Much as I resist the comparison, I have almost certainly inherited this tendency from my mother, who runs two loads a day, come rain or shine, festive season or not.



