How I wish that St. George had also opted to become patron saint of the washerwomen (or men). It is a complete mystery to me how I have been left with three odd socks in the time between removing them from the linen basket, washing them in a machine and then hanging them on the washing line outside. Is there a sock gremlin in the house? Do they get sucked through the holes in the washing machine thingy? Do blackbirds sneak up behind me whilst I'm hanging up the other washing and pinch them?

Slaying dragons would be child's play comparing to the ordeal of washing day in this house.