Today Life in a Pink Fibro asks us whether we are an ironing-basket disciple. I am, but it’s not what you think. I am more Judas than Peter.
If I need a sherpa to get over the washing basket, then I need to be helicoptered in to deal with the ironing. It sits in a corner of my dining room, growing ever more mountainous as yet another crumpled garmet is precariously loaded on top. I shudder when I remember the day we almost lost The Badoo in a landslide.
You might visit my home and feel that it is loved and cared for. Everything seems reasonably clean and fresh and organised. You might settle in and contentedly think, “Ah, nice people live here.”
But you would be wrong. Lurking beneath the scrubbed-face home, things rank and gross in nature possess it merely. And not just bad Shakespeare references. Short-cuts, blind-eyes, lazybones – they are all here.
So, no I don’t iron. LOML does his work stuff and the Tsunami’s school uniforms. The rest is ironed by body heat.
Except for an ocassional spritz with a bit of vinegar and a half-hearted swipe with the steel-wool, I haven’t cleaned the oven since we bought it 3 years ago.
The crumbs on the floor of my car would feed the entire San Marco pigeon population for a year with leftovers. Oh, I’ve heard about that technique where you imagine that the car is just another room in the home to vacuum regularly. Yeah, I heard about that.
We have three third-drawers down.
The side of our backyard deck is our Secret Garden. It is overgrown with hydrangeas that shade a multitude of thrown toys, the old dryer lint filter which blew over the side a year ago, a dropped can of Mortein and at least 27 discarded seedling pots. I clear it out each Winter when the hydrangeas lose their leaves and guests start enquiring what our tip fees are. Then the whole cycle starts again.
That’s me. That’s us. That’s my home, my sanctuary.
Are you the same?
(Oh, tell me you’re the same, even if you’re not!)