There is nothing on earth I abhor more than laundry day. It is the eater of a thousand productive hours, the devourer of days on end. Each moment of procrastination, from the point at which you first start looking very carefully at a shirt that any rational person would discredit as dirty, to the point where you no longer have any other underwear to turn inside out feeds the beast, waiting for that enviable day off, when you naively think to yourself:
"Well, I've got a little time to kill, might as well do a little laundry."
Next thing you know, it's 10 years later and the man who used to be the kid next door is going through your pockets,