Pro-dryer-tax-paying citizens feel they have a right to live in communities where shirts and trousers aren’t free to flutter and drip dry in plain sight. Years ago I saw a news piece on the subject—there were the usual outraged yet inarticulate citizens with moral compasses that led them to believe semi-dry articles of clothing were both unsightly and indecent. There was no end to the damage begotten by this kind of incivility: Property values and curbside appeal could go down the toilet; once friendly neighbours might cease all verbal communication, resorting to mean-spirited glaring to get their points across; pubescent boys could be inspired to violate themselves. Society as we know it could go to hell in a hand basket.

The whole clothesline thing reminds me of my little childhood neighbour. Growing up I had very few neighbours my own age; in fact, this one kid was pretty much it. The neighbour to the west of his house was in the habit of hanging her unmentionables on the clothesline. At least twice each week we could count on a clothesline adorned with a colourful array of panties, bras, and camisoles. My little buddy would sit in his tree house, gazing longingly at her delicates. At first I giggled, too, at the outlandish designs and colours. But soon I grew bored with the whole game. In truth I thought her underwear were just weird and tacky. I briefly thought about showing my panties-obsessed friend the underwear section of the Sears catalogue. In the end I decided this might only enable his addiction. I was just glad he didn’t ask me to try on his mother’s underwear.

Anyway, cheers to the fast-approaching clothesline season.