No one we knew had an electric clothes dryer (I'm sure they existed, but not for the likes of us). Thus, in the depths of winter (or in inclement weather during the rest of the year), the newly-washed clothes were hung on clotheshorses to dry in front of gas fires. If the weather was fine, however, back gardens up and down the street as far as the eye could see were festooned with washing lines laden with clothes, towels, and bed sheets flapping merrily in the breeze.
Both my parents used to work, so during the summer holidays I spent my days playing with my cousin Gillian who lived a few minutes up the road at my aunt and uncle's house. Unlike many folks who still did their laundry by hand, my auntie Barbara owned an old, battered, top-loading electric washing machine. This beast was stored in an outside cupboard / closet / thingy, which was built into the wall of the house next to the back door.
On Monday mornings, after my uncle had left for work, we would drag the washing machine out of its closet into the drive and my aunt would start to work on the mountains of laundry. We used a hose pipe to fill the washing machine with water, and we stuck its exhaust pipe into the nearest drain. The washing machine was a bit of a clunker, so although it made a valiant attempt to spin the clothes (at least it made the appropriate noises), they still came out dripping wet.
Thus it was that Gillian and I would be delegated to squeeze as much water as possible out of the laundry. Once the washing machine had made its best attempt, my aunt manhandled the still-sodden laundry into a tin washtub. Then Gillian and I would take it in turns to pass the clothes through a wooden wringer. One of us would turn the handle, while the other would feed the clothes piece-by-piece between the two wooden rollers. (The wringer had two screws on the top to adjust the pressure between the rollers, and two clamps on the bottom that were used to attach it to whatever was handy – I seem to recall that we mounted it over the washing machine itself, but I'm not really sure.)
After what seemed to be hundreds of loads, we would break for lunch. While munching our food, we'd look out of the dining room window into the back garden and watch the clothes swaying on their lines. After lunch, Gillian and I were let loose to play with the other kids on the street, but my aunt still had hours of work ahead of her. She would gather in the now-dry clothes, bring them into the front room, and commence to iron them.
And ironing was no small task – you have to remember that folks used to be fanatical about ironing in those days; they used to iron everything, including handkerchiefs, socks, underwear, bed sheets, towels and tea towels ... even washcloths and dusters (I wonder how many millions or billions of hours people have spent ironing clothes since time began?)
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