During my military service, I was occasionally obliged to take in ironing in order to supplement my 25 shillings a week - that's Β£1.25, youngsters - but I only, of course, ironed the bits that showed - cuffs, collars, v-shaped portion of shirt-fronts. I'm ashamed to have to admit that I haven't
ironed in any meaningful way for decades - and don't even know what a yoke is. Anne Enright's view of ironing borders on the poetic.
As a writer, her life can be one long weekend. However, there is one activity that, for her, is as essential to a perfect weekend as scrambled eggs and bacon - ironing.
"The ironing comes just before bed - usually around the shipping forecast - because you can't iron without the radio. Listening to distant gale warnings as you smooth things down and make them safe. 'Sailing By' as you swish and hiss across the board."
As she sweeps the iron across her shirts, in preparation for the week ahead, she worries about the news items she hears on the World Service. She doesn't worry about her ironing technique, however, because she was taught how to do it properly on Blue Peter when she was only 8.
"They brought in a laundress from a swish hotel, Claridges or the Ritz, and she explained in sign languages (because she was deaf), that you do the yoke first and then the facings. She was so tiny, she had to lower the board to the lowest notch. Shep sat under her elbow and looked up at her arm."
Μύ
