I got up just before 0300 this morning and set my mind to housework. After an unsuccessful attempt to clean the lavatory I ironed 3 short-sleeved sports shirts, 2 long-sleeved formal ones and a couple of pairs of slacks, the elasticated waists of which I wear, Churchill-style, halfway up my chest. Had someone warned me that it would come to this I'd have stuck my head in an oven years ago.....
It gets even worse. I've just ironed some polo shirts. Whoever irons polo shirts? You should just take them out of the washing machine, let them dry on hangers and hope that the natural contours of your beer belly dispose of such minor creases that remain.
I'm sure that ironing is addictive. At the moment I've got my beady eye on a laundry basket full of boxer shorts and Primark socks. No -- I couldn't, could I?
Nancy, the charming mother of Linda, the housekeeper at our hotel in Wales, had once been 'in service' and she showed me the proper way to press a handkerchief. (You start with the four corners and then the centre before you fold.) If only I had a monogrammed Egyptian linen 'kerchief or two I could perfect my skills. As it is, even I realize that if I try to iron my Kleenex I'll probably set fire to the flat so I'll give it a miss.
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