The delights of housework.....?

This week I rediscovered the delights of ironing....there aren't any! Ironing I hear you say? When have you ever ironed anything Ms Monkey? The answer is I haven't, well not for years anyway! I haven't been anywhere that has required crisp seams or the application of starch since.....Hang on I'm thinking about it...I don't know, last century any old how! So, let me tell you a story, gather round. Are we sitting comfortably? Then I shall begin.

My mother was very much a product of a war time upbringing and I remember vividly washday as a child in the seventies. Washday was always a Monday, come rain or shine. We used to do the washing in a wonderful old twin-tub that had took up the space of a small Sherman tank. It would be dragged out and placed in front of the sink and a variety of tubes would be attached to the taps or draped towards the plug hole. Whilst the first load washed, the hand-washing would be done in the sink and a big galvanised cauldron would simmer away on the gas stove to boil wash the handkerchiefs and my father's smalls (not at the same time I hasten to add!). After the hand washing had been done and the scalding cauldron emptied and it's contents rinsed, all would be hung on the rotary drier just outside the backdoor. Then the first load would be transferred across to the spinner and rinsed within an inch of it's life. All of these loads would be processed and hung on the line before lunch whilst Women's Hour, Listen with Mother and the Archers provided accompaniment. I used to love wash days as a child, I loved to help and found the steamy kitchen, with its hot soapy smell a wonderful place to be. I particularly loved playing with the large wooden tongs and passing my mother the clean washing to hang up.

In the event of rain, all of the washing would be stored around the house to dry. The dripping hand washing and boiled smalls went on the clothes horse over the bath, the sheets and towels on the radiators and the clothes, on a further clothes horse, in the spare room, whilst my mother cursed the heavens. She never shared my love of washday, a feeling that I have some sympathy with now, even though I never have a set day for washing. My friends' parents had automatic washing machines and tumble dryers but when questioned as to why she would not change to the newer, labour saving equipment she would chide that "they just didn't clean clothes that well" and that tumble dryers were far too expensive to run. It was not until the late eighties that she eventually switched to a washer drier. She still complained that they were "not up to much" in the cleaning department, but reluctantly agreed that she did not miss washday!

The 'happy' housewife of yore

If my mother hated washing day, then she despised ironing day! Tuesday was dreaded day and the mountain of fresh clothes and linens would be piled upon the kitchen table. The ironing board would be dragged from its cupboard, kicking and screaming, along with the green and black iron; with its fuzzy black cord. I have fond memories of that iron; although as soon as she got the chance, my mother plumped for a steam jobbie, that made her life, she said, slightly less tedious. There were a variety of reasons that my mother hated ironing with such a passion, not least of which was her height. At six foot four, she towered over the ironing board, designed for one size, fits all, nineteen fifties women; who, it would appear, were all under five foot four! Bent over double, it was with gritted teeth that she attacked the sheets; with all the speed of a rat up an aqueduct (how fast a rat moves up an aqueduct is a matter for conjecture, I have better things to do with my time than sit around, up to my armpits in canal water, with a stop watch, timing rodents in a series of controlled experiments, possible involving me going "Boo!" a lot). Occasionally, I would be allowed 'a go' at the ironing, usually involving a tea towel or handkerchief. I would stand on the step-ladder, dreamily, but also somewhat anally, ironing perfect creases so that all of my hems lined up. This would drive my mother to distraction and, after about fifteen minutes, she would say "well I must get on now!" and I would be banished from the room and it's wonderful smell of hot, clean cotton. My mother didn't bother with perfectly aligned hems or or plumb line creases (except in jeans.....that one took a lot of working on!). If it was flat and looked marginally better than it had when it was off the line then it was done. And if it was something you wore under something else (vests, knickers, pants etc) then forget it. It still took her all day and there were only three of us!

A womans work and all that...

I never really understood her dislike of ironing.....until I found myself married and working part-time. My, then, husband, had a job in a music shop and required crisp, ironed shirts, with pinpoint creases and starched collars and cuffs. I threw myself into the ironing with abandon. A short lived joy, as my husband was more anal than me! After three weeks of him 're-ironing' all of his shirts, I threw in the towel and volunteered for alternative duties. My mother had been right! Soul destroying was a fairly accurate description of how tedious the ironing for just two people turned out to be. I could not work out how to put creases where they were supposed to be and ended up with all sorts of stop-starts and creases that veered off at peculiar angles. I discovered that I was more than satisfied with hanging things up after a good shake and nobody can really see peg marks on Tshirts...can they? What really put the nail in the coffin of ironing was my first purchase of a tumble dryer, when Gee came along. And when he started school, short sleeved shirts; no crease necessary!

So why are you ironing now, I hear you cry? The tumble dryer, my faithful, crease removing friend has died. A moments silence....that'll do, it's only a piece of electrical equipment after all! And so I am back to working out where to put creases and lining up hems. I am better at it than I was, but it takes me twice as long as I can't stand up for that long to do it. It is also eating into 'my' time. That hour and a half I normally spend watching a bad film in the afternoon while I make things or sew things or knit things. I do, however, like hearing compliments from Gee as to how nice his shirts are looking. He'd better not get used to it though....My good friend McMarkie is donating his to me...If he can get it down here from Bristol. And then, the ironing board can go back into its dark corner and gather dust until the next electrical crisis!