MY absolute most-hated advert at the moment is the Ariel one where the “student” girl washes her “vintage dress”.
You know she’s a “student” because she, like, has a sarky, eye-rolling friend in the background and talks about getting weird stains down her “vintage dress”.
The fact it’s a “vintage dress” is such a novelty that she can’t stop saying “vintage dress”, even though any person familiar with words knows that in the context of washing, it’s just called a “dress.” And she pronounces it with the stress on the wrong word – “VINtage dress”, not “vintage DRESS”. Besides, it’s clearly not a vintage dress at all, but one of those fakey market stall dresses.
However, after several months of happy snarling at poor grubby student vintage dress girl, I’ve come to realise that my hate isn’t based in taste or embarrassment, but jealousy.
Because I am 25 years old and I don’t know how to wash things.
Clothes mainly, although, come to think of it, I’ve had moments with a custard-encrusted saucepan where it just seemed easier to hurl it out a window than wait for the mythical “soaking” to take effect.
And despite a fondness verging on fetish for ways to paint, primp and powder my face, I rarely cleanse even that beyond the unavoidable wash it gets in the shower every morning.
“Are you doing a dark wash or a light wash?” my flatmate will ask, brandishing something pale and chiffony. “Um. Well, it’s mainly dark. With a pink thing. And a white thing. And a couple of cream things. And these muddy plimsolls,” I’ll reply, watching her retreat in horror.
But, genuinely, I believe that separating clothes by colour is a myth invented by housework jobsworths to give us all more hassle. Not putting your new black jeans and your white silk blouse in together I can get on board with. Everything else is just scaremongering.
I also have little to no idea at all what fabric conditioner is for, except the vague impression that it’s a bit like moisturiser for your towels and, thus, completely unnecessary. Because they’re towels. They’re meant to be dry, because they dry you. That’s just physics.
Speaking of dry towels, by the way, I’ve decided that I want the next home I live in to be one with an airing cupboard. It is impossible to feel like a woman of substance and maturity when you still have to hang all your towels on a single hook on the back of your bedroom door like a peasant.
Also, all my towels have inexplicable bleach stains on them.
Which come to think of it, may be because I’m not washing them properly.