The Day of the Triffids

We’re recreating our very own version of ‘The Day of the Triffids’ in our house, but with clothes instead of plants (only because no plants live long enough in our house to grow human sized, sprout legs, whip us with their venomous tendrils and feed on our corpses, because we forget to feed and water them.  It’s as much as I can do to remember to feed and water the children and animals).

Clothes, however, are threatening invasion.  They multiply and fester in the washing basket; they poise, ready to strike from the clothes maiden; the overspill from the ironing pile threatens to force open the doors on the bedroom cupboard above our heads and attack us in our sleep; the clothes left on various floors are on the verge of wrapping around limbs in a vice-like grip.

We will be found, one day in the not too distant future, suffocated by the very garments that have kept us warm and dry and respectable(ish).  And if I am found blinded by some poisonous venom (as in the original film), then I predict that my husband’s socks will be held entirely responsible…