It made me smile today when I noticed my ironing board in the garage. I bought it, brand new, 2 months ago, and it’s still in the plastic wrapping that it came in.
Before I met my husband I rarely ironed anything, and then within a few months of being together I had somehow been hoodwinked into a thankless routine of ironing a pile of clothes every 2-3 days. He soon realised I was pretty crap at ironing trousers so he continued to do those himself, but I became tricked into taking on the traditional female role of ironing his shirts, at least 6 of the damn things every week.
I have taken a photo of my lovely ironing board, still in its wrapper. It is a symbol of my freedom.