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28 November 2016 @ 07:12 am
Where, oh where has my dishtowel gone...?  
It's the most absurd thing to fret over but ... I'm a creature of habit, and I live alone and expect things to remain where they belong. Also, I have a tendency to get fond of things—even trivial things—and worry about them.

So I have a favourite dishtowel, i.e., the one I use most often. I always keep it hanging over the handle to the oven door. I don't often dry dishes with it. (I've a dishwasher, after all; or, if I wash a mug or spoon by hand, I just leave it in the rack.) However, I dry my hands on this dishtowel a lot; so, every week, it goes in the laundry.

It's of those terry-cloth ones, which I find are the most absorbent. White with orange stripes in a sort of loose plaid design. I've had it for quite a few years, and have to admit that it's got a bit on the shabby side. However, it's still quite serviceable: a bit thin, but no holes or ragged edges or the like.

For nearly two months, it's mysteriously been missing.

At the end of September, Flo came for a couple of weeks. Shortly before she left, she did laundry in preparation for packing. I went into the kitchen, couldn't see my dishtowel, and asked her if she'd washed it with the other things and put it away somewhere (thinking, of course, that it might have been put in the wrong place). However, she said no.

And I've not seen it since.

I've looked—God knows I've looked!—everywhere I can think of. Through the drawers in the kitchen, the cupboard under the sink, the shelves where cleaning supplies are stored ... and then round odd corners of the dining room, the living room (in case I'd used it to carry something hot) ... basically, everywhere that seemed likely and then those that seemed most unlikely.

I keep being reminded that I have still to find it because, each time I go in the kitchen, I immediately notice yet again that it isn't there. If I'm not in a rush, I'll at least try to find it. Okay, not daily at this point; but certainly I have another look round at least once or twice a week. It's got to be somewhere!

As my mother used to say, when I told her I couldn't find something, "It has to be in the house, Greer. It can't walk off on its own."

Let me tell you, when you're middle aged and live alone, the last thing you want is to have something mysteriously vanish with no memory of where you might have put it.

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