When Florence our housekeeeper puts a pair of socks into the washing machine, what we get back is two matching socks. Mathematically, this makes perfect sense.

This is not the case with me. When Florence isn’t around – especially when she takes a holiday – what the machine spits out is a big fat pile of lonely socks.

(Love the poster, which I saw at Toffiefest 2012. No name designer? Sorry, there were no credits on site.)

I don’t know how it happens, but it does. Almost every pair of socks that I put in the machine gets divorced in the wash. When F gets back from her holiday, she manages to reconcile every pair. Where do all those divorcees go, for heaven’s sake?

Florence is the original domestic goddess. She regularly saves me from drowning – in ironing, messy cupboards and general domestic detritus. Stuff I never can get to in a day.

She also makes neat piles of things. Like this. Incredibly soothing on the eye of a neat freak.

My all time favourite, though, is ironed sheets. Unlike me, Florence really loves ironing. I mean loves.  This is perfect symbiosis. Because  I really love having ironed things. Nothing beats pulling a freshly ironed lavender scented sheet up to your nose on a cold night when your day has been brutal and tiring. Moments before I slip into my 8 hour coma, as my head sinks deeper and heavier into the duck feathers, the  last person whose face I see before a fall asleep is Florence’s. Nkosi Ntombizanele.

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