Separation anxiety: defying the sorting-clothes rule

Cormac dropped the basket of dirty clothes at the mouth of the washing machine, and kneeled before it. God, the tedium of reading labels, of inspecting pockets, of separating loads. Then he caught sight of his supplicant pose reflected in a window and something clicked inside him.

Stuff this, he thought, frenziedly grabbing handfuls of clothes; it’s all going in!

Whites, darks, woollens, delicates: the lot.

“Ha,” he said. “I’m mad!”

Thinking about what could happen and, more pointedly, how Haydie would react if it all went wrong, had his adrenalin surging.

He’d never felt more alive.

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