The joy of ironing

On the Saturday morning of the Ascension Day bank holiday, I swung down the stairs and ladder to the little bedroom-cum-book room and did the ironing. For me ironing is therapy. If the internal critic becomes too negative or noisy, I stick a playlist on and steam flatten the commentary line by line. On Saturday morning the internal critic was going full blast.

‘That’s it, mate. You’ll be brown bread by Michaelmas and forgotten by Christmas. What a shame you fizzled out like that. Lazy and unfocused right to the end. All those bright hopes you entertained to change for the better, to make some money to pass on, to open an honest dialogue with God. You’re all mouth and trousers. Always have been. That woman who did your astrological chart years ago was spot on — “diffuse”, she’d said. Flibbertigibbet. Well, you’ve had your chances to cut the mustard.