And that was the end of week three.
Week one: plenty of
stuff to do what with finishing up the old business and settling into the new
routine, ie no routine at all
Week two: missus on hols so I took a holiday from the
retirement and we did stuff together. Just like a proper holiday
Week three: er…pass. Everyone back to work except me.
So Monday,. I am down to my last shirt. I have a confession
to make. I have NEVER done any ironing.
Ever.
Ages 0 – 18 my mum did it
Age 18 – 21 at Uni so of course no one did it. When I say no
one, I mean not one of the 35000 or so students in the great Manchester / UMIST
/Salford University student population, girls or boys as far as I recall.
Having said that, I was always regarded as a regular Beau Brummel at the time,
which reminds me of an absolutely true incident. In those days, mid 70’s, my two items of clothing that set me apart
from the sartorially challenged crowd and drew gasps of admiration and jealousy
from the blokes, and swoons of lustful yearning from the girls were my two
velvet jackets: one brown, one blue.
Imagine my horror therefore when I discovered a one inch tear in the sleeve of my brown jacket. Not an easy thing to mend, velvet, but I had noticed a little shop on the Wilmslow Road called "The Invisible Menders".
In I went. No one there, but a voice said, "can I help you?"
Now, I do not believe in the supernatural, be it fairies, psychics, astrologers, alien spaceships, raiki healers, colonic irrigation, ghosts, religious leaders, magic of any kind, the Loch Ness Monster, the possibility of Arsenal winning a trophy this year, or any other ridiculously unlikely and clearly made up nonsense designed to prey on the minds of the simple, but I admit that, for the first and last time in my life, as that Invisible Mender leaned over the counter and said, "can I help you?", I did have a momentary wobble in my, up until then, absolute and unshakeable conviction that the world was as laid out in the science books, no more and no less.
One second later, the guy popped up from behind the counter where he had been looking for something, and the world once again came squarely back into focus.
I've often wondered, if he had stayed under the counter a few seconds longer, if I'd have started a conversation with an invisible person, and I cannot, in all honesty, say that I would not have. I guess that makes me no better than the Archbishop of Canterbury and his invisible friend.
My only excuse would have been that, real or imaginary, if it got my velvet jacket mended, I'd have believed in anything.
Imagine my horror therefore when I discovered a one inch tear in the sleeve of my brown jacket. Not an easy thing to mend, velvet, but I had noticed a little shop on the Wilmslow Road called "The Invisible Menders".
In I went. No one there, but a voice said, "can I help you?"
Now, I do not believe in the supernatural, be it fairies, psychics, astrologers, alien spaceships, raiki healers, colonic irrigation, ghosts, religious leaders, magic of any kind, the Loch Ness Monster, the possibility of Arsenal winning a trophy this year, or any other ridiculously unlikely and clearly made up nonsense designed to prey on the minds of the simple, but I admit that, for the first and last time in my life, as that Invisible Mender leaned over the counter and said, "can I help you?", I did have a momentary wobble in my, up until then, absolute and unshakeable conviction that the world was as laid out in the science books, no more and no less.
One second later, the guy popped up from behind the counter where he had been looking for something, and the world once again came squarely back into focus.
I've often wondered, if he had stayed under the counter a few seconds longer, if I'd have started a conversation with an invisible person, and I cannot, in all honesty, say that I would not have. I guess that makes me no better than the Archbishop of Canterbury and his invisible friend.
My only excuse would have been that, real or imaginary, if it got my velvet jacket mended, I'd have believed in anything.
Where was I? Oh yes.
Age 21 – 58.75 I am ashamed to say, the missus did it.
Age 58.75 (ie now) – I am going to have to do it.
Found the iron (see Blog 1). Now I do know that you have to
put water in them, so I get the iron, and honestly, it’s got more dials, levers,
flaps, gauges than the space shuttle. So I just opened all the little
compartments and put it under the tap for a bit, turned it on, propped it up on
the ironing board and stood well back.
After a few minutes it starts gurgling and smoking which I
take as a good sign. I put the first shirt on the ironing board and flatten it
as best I can with the iron. BLOODY ARMS. BLOODY BUTTONS.
After about 10 minutes of pressing down and trying to smooth
out the lumps, I take a good look at it. The wrinkles are all still there, but
now have razor sharp edges, randomly zigzagging about the entire shirt.
ARSE
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