Yes, yes, I’m avoiding the ironing again. For what? Quite.

Blog, Grr. Hate that word. Hate it, hate it, HATE it. What is a 40+ year old mother of two doing writing a daily ‘blog?’  Is it as though I actually have time on my hands? I have a job, indeed I have my own business, but perhaps this is a way of avoiding the ever increasing pile of ironing that is gradually taking over the spare room.

As I write, this week’s school shirts are currently lying at the bottom of the ironing basket and have quite possibly become nicely flattened by the weight of clothes pressing down upon them. Indeed, they may even no longer need ironing.  But dare I look?  If I did, the guilt would start chipping away and then the urge to start ironing would consume me.  Moreover, once started, there is no going back. No hungry child, irate husband, dead cat or stinky dog could stop me.  And it’s not as though I enjoy it either! But once that iron has reached the selected temperature then I have reached the point of no return. I feel compelled to get the job done.  There is just no going back.

“Mum, where are you!” a polite, considered little voice wanders the hallway below.  However, he gets no answer.  He sighs for a moment, sticks his hands deep in his pockets, as he always does when he is angry (like his dad, he is) and then repeats in a ridiculously raised voice, of which another decibel or two would surely hurt his throat,

“Mum!

Where!

Are!

Yooooou!”

The silence is broken, reluctantly,

“Just one more shirt dear, then I will be down.”

“But we’re hungry mum. Rory has to go home soon. He says his tummy hurts. We are sooooooo hungry.”

“Yes, yes, OK, just one more – err, can you set the table?”

The pair scuttle into the kitchen and I can hear cupboard doors banging, the fridge door slamming, and the familiar noise of a kitchen chair being dragged across the floor tiles on its way to the tall cupboard that houses the poorly stacked and (breakable) crockery.  Thankfully none of it of any value.  However, the thought of our few matching plates scattered in pieces across the stone floor tears me away from the last remaining school shirt,

“On second thoughts, boys, why don’t you switch on the TV for while and I shall be with you in a few minutes?”

No answer from below.  But within moments the familiar tune of the Simpsons theme carries up the stairs.  Good, good. Inappropriate but almost harmelss viewing for two 6 year-olds (well, they dont understand the puns, and inuendos, do they. Er, do they?).  But at least that gives me another 20 minutes…

Right, David’s shirts next.

I’ll do just one, perhaps two and then make dinner.  Oh why, oh why did I have boys? I can’t iron shirts for love nor money. Damm the person who invented the shirt.  Must have been a man.

There is a knock at the door,

“Be down in tick!”

“Mum! Rory’s mum is at the door!”

S***, and I haven’t even fed them yet. S***. S***.  S***!