A Woman's Work

Tonight, I did what all successful, single women in their late twenties do on a Saturday evening...I fed my younger brother (who insists he is dying from the Ebola virus, but in fact just has manflu), did the washing up and ploughed through the ironing. If the WSPU could see my life, that they fought so militantly for, would they be disappointed that one hundred years later, women still do the housework? Feed the menfolk? Cook the meals?

My only consolation is the thought that with these jeans, I could have joined the Rational Dress Society.

Incidentally, a few weeks ago, my grandma told me the story of her mother getting her first steam iron. A mad spitting thing that was attached via the gas stove, it regularly left scorch marks on the clothes and nearly burnt your eyebrows off. Tonight, as I dragged this electric iron over the clothes, I thought about how well-pressed (if slightly singed) my great-grandmother's outfits must have been. By contrast, my iron is a weak-willed little thing, barely hot enough to press a tiny wrinkle from a crease-free blouse. I'd have been more successful getting the wrinkles out of my jeans if I'd shouted, "Go away, creases!" at my clothes. I refuse to buy a better iron though - my feelings regarding ironing can best be summed up by Erma Bombeck's quote on the subject:

"Ironing is my second favourite household chore - my favourite being hitting my head on the top bunk bed until I pass out."