In the pink

I have done a crafty clothes swap with a friend who recently gave birth to a beautiful baby boy. A giant bag of our small blue things has been swapped with THREE huge sacks of baby girl items long outgrown by her sparky toddler. Now don't get me wrong, I'm not adverse to putting my soon-to-be daughter in car-print vests, they're on the inside for a reason, but I'd be lying if I said I wasn't excited to run my hands through piles of pink, yellow and flowery patterned babygrows, tees and socks.

In a fit of nesting I emptied the bags into the washer and switched it on. In a fit of pregnancy forgetfulness, long after the cycle had finished I was gainfully employed elsewhere ... possibly napping, or Facebooking or perhaps listening to my Rainbow Relaxation hypnobirthing script. Whichever way, it was 12 hours later, my arms full of damp towels, before I even went near the machine again.

My eyebrows raised in horror. The new load fell to the floor. Tears spiked at my eyes. I couldn't believe it. Only weeks after I spent hours up to my elbows in Dylon colour run remover when an errant red sock ruined a whole pile of whites, including almost all of my maternity clothes, it had happened AGAIN. In a fit of petulance I knocked a pile of paperwork from the kitchen worksurface onto the floor. Had I been wearing shoes I might have kicked something. I mentally composed a verbal attack on my husband. It must have been him of course, I just don't make mistakes like that.

Then it hit me. The view through the concave door was meant to be pink.

I'm blaming hormones.