Save Time for Writing: Dump Ironing

This week, I’ve had a revelation: not of a religious kind, but one related to ironing. You know how people can tell you something a million times over, but you don’t believe what they’re saying until the time is right?

“Oh, I never bother ironing — what a waste of time,” they’d say to me.

“Superior whatsits,” I’d think (and they’d probably be thinking the same, or feeling decidedly sorry for me).

MATHEMATICS TIME

35 years X 52 = 1820 weeks

1820 weeks X 2 hours of ironing per week = 3640 hours spent ironing

3640 divided by 24 = 152 days (rounded up)

That’s 2.4 of a year of my life spent ironing, instead of writing D:     

I started to question ironing as a necessity when my newly graduated son returned from university with the iron I bought him still in its original packaging. Then, a fortnight ago, when my husband commented on how long the ironing had taken, I showed him how much of it was his, including seven white cotton T-shirts (one for each day of the week). He said to me, “You don’t need to iron those. I’m only wearing them underneath as vests.”

Well, that was all the permission I needed to stop ironing altogether.

Here’s how I achieved satisfactory results, as well as cut down on electricity consumption (yes, it saves money as well as time):

  1. Take the washing out of the machine directly the cycle ends.
  2. Shake out the clothes before hanging on the clothes line.
  3. Peg the clothes inside out.
  4. Smooth the clothes into shape on the line.
  5. Fold them with care when you remove them from the line if they’re bone dry, otherwise air them on hangers indoors first.

Simple, isn’t it? And what an easy way to earn yourselves two extra hours a week to write, blog, dance, sing, go for a walk in the country, or plain relax: whatever you fancy.

So please feel free to display my anti-ironing logo on your blogs and, perhaps, link it back to my post so we can spread the word and gain as many converts as possible 😉

iron

My Name is “Dunno” D:

Whilst out walking today, with a brave smile on my face despite the rain, I passed by a woman with a boy of pre-school age. As I carried on walking down the road, I heard the boy ask, “Who’s that?” to which his mother replied, “Dunno.”

Over the last year or so, I’ve become a weeny bit paranoid about being a dunno (short for don’t know).  Maybe it’s my age and the grey hairs sneaking in: still more gold than silver hairs, but the ratio between the two colours is becoming less acceptable with every passing day.

The paranoia started last year. Two days after our early music choir, LuxAeterna, gave a concert, I met a member of the audience in the street. I’m good with faces, so recognised her immediately and, being friendly, said hello. She raved about the concert to me, but then asked, “And which one were you?” I replied, “The one wearing a bright orange velvet top — the soprano standing in the front row in the middle.” “Oh,” she says, “I don’t remember you.” Hell, there are only fifteen of us in the choir. I rationalised that she needed a new pair of  glasses, but was too polite to tell her so.

Lately, even my house has become invisible: a conclusion I’ve reached after the refuse and recycling collectors have repeatedly emptied every waste bin in the street other than mine. I have three wheelie bins — one green, for cardboard, paper, tins, and plastic; one black for ordinary household waste; and one brown for garden rubbish; plus one little waste bin for bottles and jars. Each of my bins is clearly labelled with my house number and left out in front of my garage next to the pavement. Darn it, I even clean the damned things, so it’s not the smell that’s putting them off.

All the above leads me to ask, am I destined for obscurity? Or one day, if I ever become a well-known writer, will I be grateful for my ability to walk down the street incognito and live in an invisible house?

Below, is a photo I took of myself disguised as a male writer called S. C. Templeton, when I was considering publishing one of my old novels on Kindle as an experiment.

incognito