I'm not making this up. Honest. I really love ironing. Even when I melted a pair of pants the other week, I still loved it. Really. Some things I make up (like that thing about having robot legs and being able to fly) but this I assure you is true. I bloody love it. Apparantly I'm not alone. Tom Baker devoted nearly a chapter of his autobiography to ironing. He's not mad is he? He is? Oh right.
I'm not particularly OCD and I couldn't think of anything more creased than my big old face, but there's something inherently wonderful about taking clothes and putting some order into them. There's a challenge - some items start as crumpled monsters and end up flattened happy friends. There's a level of skill involved - I rapidly switch between settings (1,2 or 3 - those are the main ones aren't they?)to ensure the right temperature is achieved. And the joy of turning a jumbled washing basket into 20-25 presentable items on hangers making the front room look like Gok Wan's house is wonderful - I sometimes even do a little post-ironing dance to celebrate (alright, I made that bit up).For me, you have to enjoy ironing with something else. A Boxset of 24, some radio comedy or just Sky Sports football scores rolling in. A cheeky beer or two is often an ideal companion - however, don't have too many as you'll end up with very bizarre creases in your clothes or the phone rings and you accidentally burn your ear in confusion.
I guess it harks back to my last post about how my brain takes things in and processes stuff. Why ironing to me is more entertaining than soap operas, or how I imagine when you ring the bank to 'set up a direct debit' they open a cupboard and activate a small box with legs with the word 'direct debit' on it, which manually goes to your bank - queues up - and removes the cash over the counter.
Anyway, give ironing a chance eh? You never know, you could be just like me.
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