It’s been nearly 2 weeks since my last post. Two weeks!! Wow. I know. The time has hissed away like air from a punctured tyre. The Olympics came and went. London sizzled for a whole 3 days as the temperatures soared (well, 28 degrees). The gas man came and read the meter.
As for me, what have I been up to you may, possibly, be wondering? Composing achingly beautiful poems about tragedy, destiny, and the human condition? Wrestling with the twin Gods of irony and self-deprecation? Experimenting with different fruits to make the perfect trifle?
No. All of these things were on my ‘to do’ list, but once again my plans were scuppered. Scuppered by the meaningless daily tasks that ever since I became a grown-up have dogged my daily existence and forced me to divert all my valuable, valuable time to attend to their needs. The Shopping. The Vacuuming. The Laundry. The grim Bathroom Cleaning. The prosaic, but ceaseless, Washing Up. It’s a never ending cycle of abuse. I’m sure they get together to plan how to waste my time. Seriously. And I know who the ring leader is too. The old bastard, the pickpocket of time, the sickest of them all… That’s right. The Ironing. Tonight I have spent 2 hours on this insufferable chore. 2 hours. And you know what I managed to iron in all that time? Five shirts. Five crummy shirts. They are hanging on the door in front of me now, taunting me with weird ironed pleats and their still wrinkley cuffs. I just don’t get it. No sooner have I ironed part of the back and moved onto the front than the back has got creased again. Then I iron the collar and mistakenly iron a couple of pleats into the back of the shoulders. The worst of all though has to be the sleeves. How can you iron one side without ironing stupid lines into the reverse side? How. It’s harder than solving quadratic forms with algebraic numerical coefficients. Most depressingly I know that a couple of weeks at best, I’ll have to do it all again! I think I’d rather have my liver pecked out by an angry bird, like poor old Prometheus.
I finished a sweaty mess, with burns on my hands and forearms, a singed ironing board, and 5 marginally less creased, but still unwearable, shirts. At this rate, I may have to move back in with my parents after 15 years – admit defeat, suck it up and beg mum to go back to ironing my shirts, like she did when I was at school.
How is it done? How do normal people manage have wrinkle free shirts, yet appear totally sane? I don’t get it. I suppose it’s just another of lifes mysteries, destined to stay beyond my comprehension…