Ironing is not as much fun as I remember it being.
Back when Mrs Tin and I were both working outside the home I used to do most of the ironing in the evenings, and found it quite therapeutic, since it involved no thought at all and was different in every way to my day job.
In those days, of course, there were fewer of us, and therefore the pile seemed quite finite.
Now I could iron for the next twenty-two days and the pile would still be the size of the EU’s butter mountain, though containing more single socks.
It’s also harder when your pacemaker turns on at 9.56 each morning and you’re trying to iron smoothly while half the muscles around your shoulder are in spasm.
And the iron we have now is crap – much lighter and less steamy than the one we used to have, which I could have used to flatten out a Volkswagen Beetle.
Still, at least I now know what to get Mrs Tin for her birthday.
(That’s a JOKE, by the way).