It has come to this.

Well it had to happen eventually. I mean, I'd rather it didn't happen at all, but life being what it is I had long ago resigned myself to its inevitability.

Yes. My children saw me ironing.

I don't like to iron.

Well. That's a slight understatement. I loathe to iron so much that I do not possess any clothes What-So-Ever that require ironing.  In fact, when I opened my birthday present from my mother and saw it was a Shirt that Required Ironing I felt overcome with a surge of irritation that practically negated any lingering resentment from the whole Christmas re-gifting debacle. 

Oh I am grateful for the shirt, as it suits me very well and is slimming and flattering and I can wear it all over the place. BUT, oh GOD it needs to be ironed and thus shall be worn, washed and then hang about, hooked over the back of a chair in the dining room waiting to be ironed until company turns up that requires it to be hidden (as part of my futile quest to Look Like I Am Actually Coping) in the spare bedroom, whereupon the cat will sleep on it and it will have to be washed again and the whole cycle will continue until I bribe hubby to do it for me with some Vile Wifely Duty.

Gah.

If you are wondering, that's Miss 5's school uniform and I was ironing on name-labels before I lose the wretched things - also it might make school happen faster.  I need school to happen quickly as I am not sure how much longer I can survive; it's a race between drowning whilst being jumped on in the swimming pool, being bitten to death by sand-flies and mosquitoes whilst on yet another 'picnic,' a fatal fall involving a mystery puddle, a lot of lego and four carefully aligned matchbox cars, or choking to death when trying to eat a Portuguese tart in one mouthful without chewing in the pantry.

Sigh.