Why I Genuinely Enjoy Doing the Laundry

There are many things I’ve let go of in retirement—commuting, meetings, wearing trousers with zippers—but one thing I’ve surprisingly come to love is doing the laundry.

Yes, you read that right.

Bernard Michael Rochford enjoys laundry.

Not in a laundry-obsessed, fabric-softener-collector sort of way. I’m not reviewing washing machines on YouTube or folding towels with military precision. But there’s something about the quiet rhythm of laundry day that feels deeply… satisfying.

It starts with the sorting. Lights in one pile, darks in another, socks inevitably alone and unbothered. It’s basic, but it’s a task with structure. Structure is a gift when the rest of your day might involve staring at a lemon tree and forgetting what you went outside for.

Then there’s the wash itself—pressing buttons, selecting cycles, pouring detergent with the kind of focus I once reserved for treating slipped discs. The hum of the machine kicks in and suddenly I’m a man in motion, doing something productive without breaking a sweat.

But the real joy? Hanging it out.

There’s a kind of mindfulness in pegging clothes to a line. Shirt by shirt, sock by sock, the breeze moving around you, the sun warming your back. It’s not glamorous. It’s not impressive. But it feels good.

It’s a task with a beginning, a middle, and an end—a full arc of accomplishment in a single afternoon. In a world where half my projects involve "getting around to it eventually," laundry is the rare thing I start and actually finish on the same day.

And don’t get me started on the smell. Clean laundry on a sunny day? That’s nature’s cologne. I’ve stood in the yard with a towel pressed to my face, inhaling like I’m on a tropical retreat, when in reality I’m three metres from the compost bin.

Folding is its own kind of meditation. I don’t rush it. I don’t do it while watching telly. I just fold. Carefully. Shirts into rectangles. Socks into pairs. The odd fitted sheet into a vaguely cooperative blob. Each item going back into the drawer better than it came out. Neater. Ready for another round.

And yes, I talk to the washing machine. Little encouragements. “You’ve got this, old girl.” I’m not ashamed. After all, we’ve been through a lot together—muddy gardening clothes, spilled tea towels, the occasional emergency rinse cycle after a BBQ sauce incident.

Maybe it’s the simplicity I love most. Laundry doesn’t ask deep questions. It doesn’t need Wi-Fi. It doesn’t judge you for wearing the same jumper three days in a row. It just gets on with it—and lets me feel like I have, too.

So if you ever drop by and catch me mid-pegging, don’t laugh. Just know you’re witnessing a man who’s found peace in the spin cycle.

Bernard Michael Rochford
Retired Osteopath | Line-Drying Purist | Still Folding Fitted Sheets Like a Legend (Sort Of)