The Washing Line

The Washing Line ©

By Michael Casey

See number 29 she always hangs her bloomers next to the hedge hoping nobody can see her droopy drawers, how can her bum be that big? I suppose its age, she must be 60 now. Though she puts so much makeup on she looks like a china doll in a Christmas stall. She still loves her fish net tights, she hangs those right in the middle so all the neighbours can see. There’s still life in the old girl yet.

Then there’s no.35 he’s so sad, everything droops, his moustache, his eyebrows his baggy trousers, I wonder what makes them droop so much. Probably stones, he’ll  throw himself in the canal, I’m sure of it. All his clothes are so drab, doesn’t he know how to use the washing machine, his mother must have taught him before she died.

His neighbour next door fancies him, she’s always putting out her enormous bras for him to see, like a trap. And those things just like laces with a small handkerchief attached, she always has them on the line. Why she fancies Mr Drab I’ll never know. It’s just like Jack Spratt and Mrs Spratt. If ever he looked up and saw her longing for him, they’d break that 4 poster bed she has in her back bedroom, the one with the sexy red lacy curtains. I can’t quite see what see has on the walls but I’m sure it’s something bad, in a good way if you know what I mean.

What about Mrs Mean who has one of those spinning washing lines, I really hate her, she looks like that woman in the cartoon about the hen house. She wears lots of shinny jewellery, the Magpies are always dive bombing her trying to get it off her. They should just pooh on her, she’s so cruel to that little dog of hers.

Well the sun is shining and the wind is blowing, it’s a good day for the drying. Hey look what’s happened, that big red bra has broken away, it’s flying like a kite in the sky, it’s landed straight in Mr Drab’s face. Miss Big Bra is clambering over the fence, he’s handing it back to her. She’s kissing him on the cheek to thank him. Mr Drab is smiling, she’s inviting him in for tea.

Finally at last he has noticed her, his mum always said she was a good girl. They’ve finished their tea, she’s taking him upstairs to her boudoir. Move over let’s look through the window. She is a good girl, a very good girl, but when she’s bad she’s even better. A match made in Heaven, all it took was a bit of wind.

So we’ve spied on everybody, shall we do something else now? Yes let’s swoop down and pooh on all the washing, we are pigeons after all.