I hate ironing. The only thing that sees a hot iron in my house these days is my hair.
I’d be lost without my straightener that tames the frizzy, wayward locks into some sort of normalcy.
As a kid, I loved ironing the tea towels and handkerchiefs. When I became a mum, ironing became more of a curse than a pleasure.
I used to iron the kids’ school uniform shirts as I hated them looking bedraggled walking out the door. I was secretly…