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Manifesto for mess

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Manifesto for mess

It was 8pm on a dark winter’s night. I stood in front of my utility room sink, surrounded by clothes in various states of the wash cycle; some in the washing machine, others hanging on the airier, more optimistically waiting to be ironed. I was scrubbing stains off my baby’s clothes after a ‘successful’ meal. She had enjoyed her food but as usual, the bib had let me down. I was feeling tired and harassed and thinking, “WHY DON’T BIBS WORK?” That day my daughter, Emily had been wearing a white cardigan. “Madness!” I hear you cry.  I would normally...

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