This Domestic Goddess has another confession to make. There is a Significant Other in my life. And its not my husband.
I'd like you to meet George. George is an ever-present character in my life. He looms large over my every day activities, and is a very definite indicator of my mood. He sits quietly in my dining room, soundless and waiting. Always there. I tolerate George. I have to. You see, George is my ironing basket.
I hate ironing. Passionately. Actually, let me rephrase that. I hate the THOUGHT of ironing. Passionately. Once I am actually engaged in the task, its quite satisfying. I like watching the creases disappear, hearing the hiss and sigh of the iron, and feeling the quick movements as the iron darts over the clothes.
But I still hate the prospect of ironing. I don't know why. I always have. Its a definite flaw in my Domestic Goddessly plans.
I named my ironing basket George after a particularly frustrating week of non-ironing. It was overflowing, creating an unnecessary mess. And for once, I couldn't blame the kids, cats or husband. I had to yell at someone, and I certainly wasn't going to yell at myself.
So I named the basket George, and he has sat there, quietly observing me ever since. George is a key indicator of my mood. When I am full of energy, happy and bustling, George is mostly empty, or very nearly empty.
When I am feeling tired, or down, George will overflow, causing a flood of washing to pool around the legs of the ironing board.
My husband has tolerated George for a while now. Except when George gets hold of his work uniforms. Thats not allowed, you see.
My husband is particular about his uniforms. Once, when just newlywed, I ironed his uniform in a fit of wifely duty. It was a mistake. He re-ironed them, because the creases weren't "just right."
Dear Husband will wear creased jeans, but his uniform has to be perfect. George is not kind to uniforms. Long flight suits with zips, flaps, straps, velcro and seams do not fold well.
So my husband intervened. He took George away. He took him across the road to Al Farah Nour Automatic Laundry. He leaves George there, and 24 hours later, goes to fetch him.
Instead of a basket of badly folded clean laundry, he returns loaded with beautifully pressed clothes, perfectly ironed, perfectly folded and ready to pack away.
George and I get on so much better these days. There are times when he overflows, and times when he stands lean. S
ometimes I iron the contents myself, and sometimes Al Farah Nour Automatic Laundry completes the task.
But we have come to an understanding, George and I. No longer will he dominate my life. He will always be a part of it, until someone more intelligent than I invents self-laundering clothes.
Because now he knows. There will always be Al Farah Nour Automatic Laundry.....