Caring

I don't take much notice of care labels

unless one of the plasticky ones is irritating my skin

where it is sewn into a seam.

Thus it was this morning, that I took a pair of scissors to

the labels in a new shirt, marvelling at the mine of information

contained on four of them in fifteen languages

and mentally consigning the spare buttons to the spare button drawer

holding all the other spare buttons for garments long forgotten.

Then I noticed the erratum slip - the prickliest culprit.

'Use mild detergent', it said.

They had gone to some trouble to insert this.

What must the original instruction have said?

I went back to the care label.

There were fifteen symbols on it.

My life was shortening as I tried to decipher them

but I needed to know what I might have done,

had I tried to obey the care instructions.

Boil?

Cold rinse in early morning dew?

Wash only in asses' milk?

 Beat with twigs?

The shirt is grey with white polka dots.

If I had followed their injunction to use bleach

it would have been white with white polka dots.

Phew.Thank goodness I don't bother about care labels.