I’ve heard “no one enjoys ironing”, well “hello”, call me a crease obsessed domestic freak ‘cos I bloomin’ love ironing! I’d almost go as far to say that with enough time to get my (ironing) kit out, it’s actually a pleasurable luxury – after all, nothing beats regaining half my wardrobe by freeing the garments from the shackles of the ironing basket; in essence, it’s like going shopping for new clothes while ticking a job off ‘the list’ which you can martyr yourself with at the altar of relationship chore-tit-for-tat at a later date, what’s not to love?!
I think it happened somewhere between the episiotomy and the endless sleepless nights, a seismic shift in my pleasure receptors and what I consider a reward. Once upon a time I took great pleasure in travelling, new shoes, finding the right shade of lip gloss with a zero hair-stick factor – I’m not saying these things no longer give me pleasure, but these days they are considered more of a luxury. After having children, the little time vampires have an effect on how you view menial tasks; perhaps it’s because prior to the little second-suckers entering our lives we would freely roam super markets, taking minutes deliberating over which fresh juice one might prefer to sup in peace on a lazy Sunday morning, or leisurely separate, not only lights from darks but, silks from wool as we generously applied a suitable washing solution based on the fabric composition.
But not only do I dream fantasise of a trip to Waitrose (sod it, I’d be just as thrilled with a Lidl these days) on my own, for at least an hour, without having to separate what looks like Tyson Vs Holyfield in the bakery dept as my 7 & 8 yr old go hell for leather for the third time whilst childless twenty-somethings gawk in disbelief, but I find myself ranking household chores into things I must do first before I’m allowed to move on to the more “fun” tasks.