What’s at the bottom of your ironing basket?

Am I abnormal? I often ask this question about my strange life, but in this instance, I am talking about ironing! I actually quite like ironing. There I said it. I do like ironing.  It’s therapeutic.  I put my iPod on shuffle and off I go. I like to think that I’ve invented a new type of exercise for the modern busy mum – ironasize or ironobics! I jig from side to side, whilst ironing, which of course has to be executed with great care.

In reality, I suppose that it is a rare bit of me-time, time to gather some thoughts. Time to reflect on the past week.  It is all very positive until… I reach that same point every time. Fondly known as the “grot pile”. The “unironables”! They lurk there for several weeks, months even until I finally face up to them.

I’m sure you know the sorts of things I mean. Those horribly creased shirts that would involve too much effort. The little girlie tops with the impossible frilly frills everywhere. The linen trousers that just never look ironed. Cardigans – I love cardigans, but if they have to be ironed they are awful!  Those pretty two layered skirts that just take too long.  And don’t get me started on the silky tops – just impossible.

So, my ironing system is quite effective; I iron all the little things first, then the boys’ school uniform, followed by their t-shirts and trousers.  Maximum efficiency and minimum time.  Then, when my husband appears, the ironing mountain is greatly reduced and I appear to be very efficient.  By now, my enthusiasm is starting to wane and after a few adult garments, I get fed up and so a few more bits are added to the “pile”.

In the end, the “grot pile” ends up bigger than the rest and I decided to start working through it.  The great thing at this point is that if I sort through it, I get a few bonuses: a couple of things will be out of season and so won’t need ironing.  Any children’s clothes still in there might now be too small.  The really really creased shirts belonging to my husband can go back in the wash in the hope that they may lose some creases and if  I’m extremely lucky, there may be one or two odd socks there that I’ve been madly searching for.

In the end, the “grot pile” is reduced to a few items which seem manageable and it is a lovely feeling seeing an empty ironing basket – even if it is only for a couple of hours!  My husband did tentatively point out that if I shouldn’t leave a “grot pile”, as it just meant that all of those items I hated ironing would be even more creased sat under the weight of everything else. The result of that conversation?  My husband is now on ironing duty for a few weeks!