In praise of the ironing basket

If you know me well, you know that I would not generally use the word 'praise' in the same sentence as 'ironing basket' without good reason. The iron and I are not friends. I remember getting a steam iron for Christmas the year I moved out of home and... well, let's just say the words 'stony' and 'faced' would have best described my reaction. Almost as good as the year I got a vacuum cleaner... but that's another story.

I have spent much of my life seeking out the words 'anti-wrinkle', and not just in face creams. Those 'throw out your iron' pants that Shane Warne was advertising a few years ago? I tried very hard to get The Builder to invest in an entire wardrobe of them. I had shirts that hung unworn for years simply because they did not fit the work wardrobe criteria: can it be put on right now and look presentable?

But I am a reformed non-ironer. Like a reformed smoker, only less evangelical. Still a little preachy though. So bear with me.

When Mr7 started school two years ago, I stuck with my long-practised Theory of Ironing. That is, do it only when necessary. So, yes, I was ironing a uniform every day, wedged around sandwich-making and general yelling about shoes. It wasn't pretty, but it worked.

Until I realised that it was one of the reasons that, every single day, we screeched into the carpark as the bell rang. And that it was adding to the general yelling about shoes by adding to the general stress levels.

Enter, the ironing basket. It began gradually enough. On Sunday night I would iron two 'normal' uniforms and one 'sports'. We had enough gaps between sports days that we could rotate nicely. The Builder's work blues began appearing on the pile and we would take it in turns to 'do the ironing'.

Slowly but surely, I have become an organised, Sunday night ironer. The Builder and I not only do all the uniforms and the work blues, but the occasional random pair of pants or frock has joined the pile. I have realised the joy of going to the wardrobe and being prepared. The true definition of Ready To Wear. Not everything, of course. A family night out would not be a family night out without last-minute ironing (and yelling about shoes).

Somewhere online last week - a blog? a tweet? facebook? - someone* commented that their mum had come over and had been looking for the ironing basket. "I don't have one," this mystery blogger/tweeter/facebooker replied. "I'm too busy to do ironing like that."

I thought of my ironing basket. And how much time it saves me. It's like reading your emails - a major time-suck if you do it piecemeal, but chunk it down and you can get really efficient at it.

Or at least that's what I'm telling myself as I try to come to terms with my new position in life as an Ironing Basket Disciple.

Are you an ironing-basket disciple, or a devotee of the Iron As You Go principle? Is this just another sign of my impending old age?


*Let me know if it was you - I often find myself wandering down unfamiliar paths on the internet and can never remember where I was or how to get back there.


And yes, in case you were wondering, the above image from GraphiteGirl/etsy is exactly what I look like when I iron. Right down to the high heels.