Liking a challenge, and in the absence of inspirational alternatives, today I’ve set myself a task of penning prose (minimum 500 words) about the pile of ironing I’m repeatedly strolling past while going about my daily chores.
No, don’t go!….. Come back!!…… It might not seem a subject which’ll warm the cockles of your heart, or indeed the heartles of your cock, but I’ll endeavour to make it as interesting as a monologue about an ironing pile can be …. As I say above, I like a challenge!
Anyhow, this aforementioned pyramid of clothing items is one I’ve ignored completing for days. Garb whose gaze capturing presence, along with my indifference at undertaking the task in a timely manner has begun pricking my conscious.
In a nutshell, like during yesterday’s writing session, as I scribe a stack of garments requiring pressing taunt me from across the living room. Sitting within a laundry basket on an opposite armchair, my lack of motivation to render these T-shirts and jeans fit for wear has now manifested a guilty mindset. Not to mention raising questions about how ineffectively I prioritise housework.
Yours truly’s augmented self-reproach levels affording an insight into what it must be like to be a practising catholic. A religion, it seems to me, which thrives and controls by the ingrained penitence it instils in its congregation.
Anyhow, as is my want within narratives, I wish to avoid banging on about religion. After all, the comparison doesn’t totally scan anyway. This pile of unironed clothing isn’t demanding I seek redemption for laundry sins by offering three Hail Marys, or indeed chain a penitent spike to my leg. The latter apparently an act occasionally undertaken by disciples of the Opus Dei order…… Right, back to the main topic………
Continued viewing of this clobber unearthing notions I should put my laptop away, concentrating instead on pressing the creased garments. For one thing, me ‘kicking the can down the road’ means my living room’s aesthetics have negatively suffered this week, episodes which ordinarily press my OCD buttons.
I also need to note I’m gonna run out of clean, pressed tees and denims if I don’t get my backside in gear and complete this chore.
Completion of the laundry process is a far greater priority than practising my penmanship. After all, these blogs aren’t monetised and I answer to no one deadline wise. Leading to the question “What’s the worst that could happen by not penning today’s prose?”
After all, not getting opportunity to publish a narrative on my website won’t result in a barrage of hate mail from regular readers. A day bereft of my literary vignettes shouldn’t lead to overly serious consequences; like a stock market crash, or US singer Robin Thicke’s budgie Archie running low on millet spray.
If I did ever get negative feedback (which I haven’t thus far) it’s more likely to be for use of a split infinitive, or some other grammatical faux pas. I’d be surprised if I was in receipt of a polemic for failure to deliver prose on any given day.
My late mum, whose house I currently reside in, would give me pelters for such laundry laxity. A consummate exponent of the iron and board, the matriarch habitually ironed every single item which entered the washing machine….. Well, apart from odd socks which’d sporadically disappear mid-launder, as they tend to do for thousands of others.
Consequently, mum, dad and her three offspring would always leave our family home in attire which’d been ironed to within an inch of its life. Believing in making a good first impression, the working class Yorkshire lass ensured her family’s threads was always immaculately laundered. “You’re not going out looking like a scruff arse!” she’d quirkily uttered on manny occasion in response to dissenting voices.
She’d not just freshly pressed T-shirts and trousers, but also underwear, socks (well the ones she could find) and even handkerchiefs. I never witnessed the practise but, so thorough was her garment pressing, it wouldn’t have surprised me if she’d also iron inside trouser pockets.
Right, I’m bringing this blog to a conclusion now so I can make a start at diminishing the ironing pile…… Actually, I can’t be arsed again!….. I’ll do it tomorrow.
I think all writers need to master the noble art of ironing, Gary. One of the best procrastination techniques I know.