Ironing gets done religiously in this house on a Sunday morning.
General household rule is that if it doesn’t get ironed on Sunday then it needs to wait a week.
I’m fastidious about emptying that ironing basket on a Sunday. (OK a bit OCD about it)
It doesn’t seem so long ago that I would spend ages trying to use the point of the iron to flatten out tiny pin tuck pleats on Girl Child’s baby dresses and running the iron over the knickers that went with the dress.
Then it was school uniforms. Wee tiny white cotton shirts and grey or then black skirts that grew bigger year after year.
There were countless tops, skirts, jeans and dresses over the years in various shapes, colours and lengths.
There were hems that were fixed and buttons sewn back on. The occasional tear stitched on a favourite item of clothing.
I patiently taught her to iron t-shirts as a starting point, praying that she wouldn’t burn her fingers or my clothes.
School uniforms were replaced with various work uniforms – fast food outlet uniforms, high street shop uniforms, pizza delivery uniforms.
Those in turn were replaced with student nurse uniforms.
Twenty years of spending hours on a Sunday ironing clothes.
Last Sunday marked the end of an era.
My baby girl has long since grown out of those M&S pin tick pleat dresses and flown the nest.
And among her parting gifts – a brand new iron all of her own.
Don’t burn your fingers or the clothes, Baby Girl!
Coral McCallum 