Thinking about what a great travel partner I am, today I woke up before Stacker, put on some laundry and started to make some tea to wake him up with.
As I pottered around preparing the tea I was feeling a little nervous because I’d thrown his fleece in the wash and, last time I did that, I’d managed to shrink his favourite fleece. I had made it close to the top of his “things people have done to me that I will never forget and constantly remind them of” list, just under Abu Debbie who had once smoked while wearing said fleece.
I was confident though, having selected the 15 minute low temperature wash with no drying cycle. No chance of shrinkage or even mild bobbling. If I hung it in the sun it might even by dry by the time he was ready to leave the house and I would emerge as the early-morning fleece-cleaning hero and prove that I was capable of using a washing machine without incident.
It wasn’t until ten minutes later, in the middle of my morning ablutions, that I had a flashback to the night before when, while hugging him, I’d felt a weird square shape in the chest pocket of his fleece. “Oh, that’s my passport,” he’d said. “I brought it with me in case I needed it at the doctors today”
Oh crap. Oh crap. Oh crap.
Machine off. Set 1 minute drain program. 60, 59, 58…..
Please no. Please no. Please no.
It turns out I’m actually the worst kind of travel partner. The calamitous, klutzy kind.
That cup of tea came in handy as I broke the news to him. “Erm, Stacker…. I’ve, erm, done a really bad thing…”