A love of ironing sheets? I’m more of a handkerchief man myself

‘IIRON sheets,’ said one of the ladies who lunch. She was explaining how it came about that she had missed her morning Pilates session. Apparently, contorting herself into knots on the floor of the local badminton club came second on her list of priorities to the smoothing of bed linen. ‘I iron sheets,’ she said, as though this was the most natural thing in the world. ‘Of course I iron sheets.’

On this particular occasion, she had been detained at home for the morning tackling a mountain of freshly washed bedding.

Under cross examination by her companions, it emerged that not only does she iron sheets, she also irons pillow-slips and duvet covers. She is proud to have it known too that she irons underwear and, most baffling of all, she irons socks. Not a word of a lie – she said she irons socks, even the little ones. I heard it with my own ears. Socks.

The ladies who lunch were gathered in Our Town Tavern. The rest of this refined crew were picking at avocado or chicken breast salads featuring mounds of raw broccoli. But the ironing woman, lean as a lath, was tucking with relish into a massive hamburger with double helping of chips. Apparently, ironing is good for the appetite. Much better than Pilates at any rate.

I confess to being glued to the conversation, though not (obviously) a member of the company. The revelations coming from this martyr to housework were overheard as I lapped up my ration of liver and bacon at the table next door. I covered my interest with a show of savouring Chef Lukasz’s speciality, creamy mashed potato, and of slurping my gravy. As I cleaned the plate with a slice of bread, I felt that the ironing woman was genuinely surprised to learn how she was alone in her obsession.

The rest of the gang were happy to speak of the swanky irons they own, hardware which comes with a wide range of temperature settings and steam options. If they feel a need to iron sheets, or knickers, or bras, or even socks, then they have to equipment necessary to set about the job with efficiency. However, they prefer to reserve their efforts for items such as jackets and trousers which come under closer public scrutiny than vests or long johns.

On the face of it, the notion that sheets require such attention is a nonsense. They will surely be rumpled and rucked in no time at all, wiping out the effects of the good work done to eradicate the wrinkles.

I could think of just two possible reasons for such behaviour. One, the ironing lady is mad. Two, she finds ironing therapeutic. Seeing her joyously dipping her chips in ketchup and calling for a second glass of white, she radiated sanity. Eccentric, maybe. Mad, no. I was left to speculate that perhaps she is the product of an untidy upbringing where neatly creased sheets and clothes offered some semblance of the reassuring order which was otherwise missing. Enough of the psychobabble.

Most likely she simply enjoys ironing. The smell of it. The challenge of achieving the perfect finish. The physical exercise.

My own experience of the art goes back to boyhood when it was included in the far-sighted programme of the cub scouts. We chaps were told that on no account were we to allow our mothers (fathers did not enter the 1960s equation) to iron the neck scarves which were part of the cub uniform. This was our job and, if an accident ensured, then at least the first aid training which was also part of the curriculum would come in useful.

My repertoire was extended over the years into adulthood to include shirts and pants until one day when I set about a pile of clothes, confident that I would do them justice. I set up the ironing board in front of the television, setting about the task while watching a rugby match on the box. Rugby is ideal as spells of intense action alternate with periods when nothing much is happening. So there I was, dashing away with enthusiasm, when I was afflicted by a paralysing back spasm accompanied by frantic pain that brought the housework to an abrupt halt.

The second half of the game was watched through tears of discomfort as I lay on the floor being plied with pills. The experience has left me scarred but I have a confession to make: I still love ironing handkerchiefs. No idea why.