I felt relieved, yet slightly disappointed by this answer. Apparently the idea of being fucked by a ghost was something I found rather attractive.
I rebuilt the fire from the still-glowing embers, thankful for the still plentiful supply of firewood. Then I had a shower, after which I stood in front of the fire to dry and warm myself. It was only at this point that I noticed the pile of my filthy clothes on the floor.
I sighed and, taking them into the bathroom, rinsed them clean in the tub.
“Washday!” I murmured to myself, and laughed. I thought of the spa to which I had been heading when I’d had that accident. My friends would be wondering where I was. Images of expected luxuries—hot tubs, muscular blond masseurs—gave way to a feeling of relief. All those people, all that busyness! Here I was, in this sunlight-filled cottage, everything peaceful, the birds singing outside. Even the primeval task of washing clothes by hand, it all felt rather wonderful, simple, and good.