Pompilio arrived with a pair of underpants tied to a stick and announced he'd found a treasure map. Bandanna on his head, ring-pull earring, and enough confidence to make you furious. He charged us two hazelnuts each to join the expedition.
“Here's the mountain. Here's the river. Follow this bend and you'll reach the gold.”
Leocadia looked at the garment from a safe distance and put her bucket down.
“That's a skid mark, Christopher Columbus. Lower the bloody map. We're downwind.”
We'd already crossed half the woods following that bend. Pompilio said it was too early to rule anything out. He had Basilio digging behind a nettle and still fancied himself an expert. We confiscated the stick before he could sell another guided tour.
Praying won't shift it
With these stains, sooner is better. Once they've dried or been exposed to heat, they can become more stubborn. There's no need to shame anybody. Everyone has a bad day. Charging admission to yours is another matter, Pompilio, mate.
Leocadia put on gloves, gently removed the solid residue with paper without rubbing it in, and rinsed the area with cold water. She used the laundry sink. The salad bowl stayed exactly where it belonged. Basilio brought it over and put it straight back before she'd even finished giving him the look.
Then we applied an enzyme laundry detergent suitable for the fabric directly to the stain. We followed the amount and contact time on the packaging, without letting it dry on the cloth. Enzymes help break down some of the dirt. Pompilio moved closer as though we'd put on a show.
“Where do the enzymes keep their mouths?”
“You keep an eye on those hazelnuts. We'll settle up shortly.”
We washed the garment with detergent on a full cycle, at the highest temperature allowed by its care label. Yes, we read the bloody label before cutting it off. It came in handy for once. Pompilio suggested adding several cleaning products together to hurry things along. Absolutely fucking not: don't mix cleaners, and never mix bleach with ammonia or vinegar. We wanted clean clothes, not a coughing escape from the house.
The tumble dryer can wait
Before drying, we checked the stain. If it's still there, repeat the treatment and wash as permitted for that garment. An iron or tumble dryer can set it with heat. We can't promise miracles for an old mark that's been through twenty drying cycles either. If the fabric's falling apart, retire it. Scrubbing with extra rage doesn't fix everything.
Leocadia cleaned and disinfected the sink and utensils according to the product instructions. Then we washed our hands. Pompilio watched the water solemnly. The river on his map had just disappeared down the plughole, which wasn't doing his business any favours.
This time the pants came clean. We hung them out and had a snack while they dried. Basilio was itching like mad after all that digging in nettles. Pompilio offered everyone one hazelnut back. The other covered his commentary.
Then Leocadia showed him a blue repair beside the waistband. Pompilio felt his trousers. Looked at the washing. Felt his trousers again.
“Oh, shit. Those are mine.”
We'd crossed half the woods following a map of his arse.
He returned every hazelnut. These days, we have two requirements for joining his walks: a proper route, and confirmation that he's washed his backside.
