I don’t reckon there could be a more thankless way of spending a Saturday than IRONING.
It is no secret that there are few domestic jobs that I actually like. Well none in fact if you don’t count the fact that I quite enjoy polishing the kitchen granite, which is a strange admission I know, but the ironing really does just take the biscuit, well not just the biscuit, the whole bloody bakery!
I hate it! It is tedious and boring and actually quite hot work. My knees ache and there is no amount of daydreaming or tellie watching that can fool the brain into believing that this is a worthwhile pursuit.
I wish I could con myself into believing that ironing was not necessary, but I do love sleeping on just ironed pillow cases and there can be no doubt that clothes just feel better when the fibres have been relaxed by being squashed between the hot pressure of the iron and the spongy ironing board.
There is only one part of it that is any good at all and that is when I get to look into the empty bloody basket.
What a pisser that it is a never ending story.