Grand Theft Laundry


This morning was a first for me.

Not quite a blue lights flashing nee-naw nee-naw moment, but a call to the cops to solve a heist perfected nevertheless by a well oiled criminal (washing) machine.

Seven weeks in at rehab central and a crime so dastardly had taken place right under my nose.

Who was the knicker nicker? The person loose with my lingerie and swindler of my socks? Could they be an evil team of clothing cons, adept at the lucrative second hand dress market?


It was a snatch so fiendishly clever that even the top ranks of the local CID had to confess after a day of rigorous police investigation it was a crime they could not solve.

My losses to laundry include three vest tops, 10 pairs of knickers, one pair unique yoga pants and now a pair of quirky left-right socks (which you’d be amazed how many carers have difficulty putting on the right foot (pun intended). HTF anyone passes a driving test in this country God only knows)

The last item being the last simple gift my father bought me before he died.
So while not of great monetary value, carry a huge amount of sentimental baggage with them.

Hey, maybe I’m just expecting too much of a facility which costs me more than two grand a week. But if even a two-bit $5 a night hotel in butt-fuck south-east developing world Asia can sort my laundry you’d hope FFS these people should.

Now those of you who know me well will know how little patience I have for fuck-wits, fuckwittery and any manner of fucktardiness.

Not to mention the amount of data and rehab time I’ve used tracking down replacement items. And that just pisses me off.

In addition to staff who refuse to acknowledge their ‘system’ isn’t working. Bit like the government and the NHS.

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