In honour of the Jubilee or the Olympics or something I ironed 2 pairs of culottes and a skirt yesterday. I don’t iron, on the whole. The last recorded instance of it was in 1496 I believe. But occasionally even I realise that something is just too crumpled to wear au naturel. Damn you 100% cotton summer wear!

I cannot understand why people claim to like ironing, even going so far as to do sheets and underwear. These people need to be removed in jackets that keep their arms snug. After about a year (3 minutes perhaps in truth..?) of ironing this sodding skirt I thought, ‘this panel looks familiar…’ Yes, I’d gone all the way round and was doing the same bit again. BECAUSE I AM RUBBISH AT IRONING AND COULDN’T TELL THE DIFFERENCE. Actually, that’s a slight exaggeration. It did look marginally better – the creases were ironed rather than un-ironed creases.

‘Oh, but you can watch the telly while you iron’, say the defenders of it. I don’t want to watch the telly while I’m ironing. I want to watch the telly while I’m watching the telly. Lying comatose on the sofa – surely what it is designed for – perhaps going so far as to sup some wine and munch a bit of choccy. I don’t want to have to be continually missing the arched eyebrows of Margaret, Goddess of The Apprentice, in her all-too-brief appearance, because I’m trying to negotiate a tricky pocket.

And don’t get me started on the medieval instrument of torture that is the board. What idiot designed this mousetrap like sliding snappy hinge thing on the bottom? In my Room 101 – the Orwellian one rather than the increasingly flabby TV version, I would be locked in a room filled with wasps and a never-ending pile of ironing, that Sisyphus –like (Google it, youngsters!) I would be compelled to keep attempting to clear.

Ironing. It can jog right on.