FRIDAY 27TH JULY
Yesterday I went to see an old school friend who I hadn't seen for months, and apart from a few other occasions previous to that (one including her rather drunken hen-night earlier this year), I hadn't seen her since school. It was the wonder of a particular social network site, and a mutual friend's willingness to cook us lunch at her house one Easter holiday, that brought about this reaffirmation of our friendship. To be fair, our recent reconnection was borne out of our mutual frustration of our domestic servitude. That and the fact our kids are roughly the same age and play quite nicely together.
Whilst at her house yesterday afternoon, after we had eaten lunch, she suggested we went and sat in the garden. A rare treat as the sun was out. As we walked through the dining room to the garden, apologetic and slightly red-cheeked, she drew my attention to a rather large pile of ironing piling up on a table underneath a windowsill. To say it was "rather large" might actually be somewhat of an understatement. In fact, I think I saw injured climbers, helicopters and rescue workers waving at us from the top, but it could have been a trick of the lack of sunlight that that particular corner of the room had seen for the last year or so.
"What the F-?" I screamed in horror.
"I know," she replied "I just don't have the time. The kids are running out of clothes and it would be faster to pop to Primark and buy them a new wardrobe of clothes each than stand and iron those."
I couldn't really disagree. By the look of this particular pile, the onset of the blessed release of death would be more preferable than facing that anytime soon. In fact, were I facing that pitiful depressing stack of clean washing everyday I would feign some madness or other, say, running down the street naked until somebody reported me to social services so that they'd send a carer around to do it.
On closer inspection of the pile of ironing though, it seemed that at least half of it didn't actually need ironing. I pulled out an almost flat pair of denim shorts.
"Well, why are these in here?" I demanded, more apoplectic by the second. "These don't need ironing! And in fact, this top only needs to be put on a coat hanger and hung on the back of the door when you have a shower. The creases will soon drop out of those."
My friend looked aghast at me, as if I was suggesting she dip them down the loo first.
"So many of my friends at work tell me they don't iron. In fact my friend Sue doesn't even own an iron! I just don't know how people get away with it."
"Because there are not enough hours in the day! You have three kids, for Godsake! Why are you putting yourself through this?"
She explained how her mother was constantly nagging her about the state of the house, her cleaning, and the standard of her ironing, generally criticising her about, well, everything involving anything remotely domestic! As she got underway with her story, my jaw gaped open wider and became stiffer with rage. I was horrified.
"Oh my GOD! Ignore her!" I pleaded "I mean, what did she envisage for you when you were a kid? To travel the world? Have exciting experiences? Go out and do all the things she never did? Or stand there behind an ironing board for three days every week?"
"No," replied my friend, "all she wanted for me was to get a job and leave education. When I stayed on to do my A Levels she was furious. 'What do people need education for anyway?' she used to say. 'Those people with qualifications have no common sense'... "
"Well," I said, "you tell her from me that you refuse to perpetuate the cycle of her own female oppression scaling mountains of ironing, suffering hours of boredom and potential suicide for the sake of a few creased Tshirts!"
My friend smiled at my outrage, but deep down I knew there was no way she would go through that clean washing and pull out the less creased items to be hung up in the wardrobe un-ironed. She was far too indoctrinated in the theology of the "Domestic Goddess". Far too devout. And although I doubt that pile will meet with the holy iron this weekend, at some point my friend will be praying at the alter of the ironing board. But only after she's prayed for either; a) a winning lotto ticket so that she can pay for a new wardrobe of clothes from Next, as well as pay for some other mug to do it, b) prayed for either the ironing fairies to visit or an alien invasion, or c) prayed for two broken arms and a sympathetic friend or relative to take pity on her. Either that or her and the kids will be walking the streets of her local area naked, Social Services will be called, and next time I visit her it will be in a secure unit.
And there-in lies the problem for the disillusioned and damned damsel. If our own mothers won't allow us to throw off these domestic shackles, then we've got bugger all chance of the rest of society letting us. Who invented ironing anyway? The prick!
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