Total pants

It’s a disaster. We’re into the early hours of Thursday morning and my ‘washed knickers’ count is at zero. Ditto washed boxers. In fact, the only things that are washed are the dogs, as they all had a shower on Sunday. Which has left A with a dodgy back, incidentally….not good with locks coming up and me not knowing where to shove my handspike. And please, no suggestions…Seems like he tweaked it (his back, not the handspike) when he was lifting Monty into the bath. And of course, it’s man’s backache…which is akin to man flu, so I’ve had to put up with all these amazingly dramatic oohs and ahhs and sharp intakes of breath. Funny how he sits up in bed of a morning, slurps down his tea and only puts on his ‘agony face’ when I politely ask him how his back is feeling…And just when I should be getting a grip on our smalls, I’ve been tempted into a little bit of plan tweaking and map studying instead…the result of which could well be a little foray onto the Selby Canal. A ‘going commando’ sort of foray if I don’t have any pants available. Now I know how Flash Gordon felt when he only had 24 hours to save the universe...Can I rescue this holiday? Can I find the little string bag to put the Persil tablets in? Can I launder 24 pairs of underwear - 21 for me, 3 for him? Oh and there's my poor blessed mother! What about her knickers? She can't go commando, there's the postman to consider. I think I may have to be sneaky and break the apartheid system just this once - whites and colours in together and then run to the hills! Sowerby Bridge, here we come...trailing our damp grey smalls behind us...