In honour of the Jubilee or the Olympics or something I ironed 2 pairs of culottes and a skirt yesterday. I don't iron, on the whole. The last recorded instance of it was in 1496 I believe. But occasionally even I realise that something is just too crumpled to wear au naturel. Damn you 100% cotton summer wear!
I cannot understand why people claim to like ironing, even going so far as to do sheets and underwear. These people need to be removed in jackets that keep their arms snug. After about a year (3 minutes perhaps in truth..?) of ironing this sodding skirt I thought, 'this panel looks familiar...' Yes, I'd gone all the way round and was doing the same bit again. BECAUSE I AM RUBBISH AT IRONING AND COULDN'T TELL THE DIFFERENCE. Actually, that's a slight exaggeration. It did look marginally better – the creases were ironed rather than un-ironed creases.
'Oh, but you can watch the telly while you iron', say the defenders of it. I don't want to watch the telly while I'm ironing. I want to watch the telly while I'm watching the telly. Lying comatose on the sofa – surely what it is designed for – perhaps going so far as to sup some wine and munch a bit of choccy. I don't want to have to be continually missing the arched eyebrows of Margaret, Goddess of The Apprentice, in her all-too-brief appearance, because I'm trying to negotiate a tricky pocket.
And don't get me started on the medieval instrument of torture that is the board. What idiot designed this mousetrap like sliding snappy hinge thing on the bottom? In my Room 101 – the Orwellian one rather than the increasingly flabby TV version, I would be locked in a room filled with wasps and a never-ending pile of ironing, that Sisyphus –like (Google it, youngsters!) I would be compelled to keep attempting to clear.
Ironing. It can jog right on.
Recently I read an article entitled ‘Why are women’s friendships so darn complicated…?’It bemoaned the fact that all women filled their time with vendettas, feuds and bitching sessions against other females who they purported to be their friends.
This article was written by a man leading me to think why are men’s opinions of women so darn clichéd…? It would be like me saying all men ogle scantily clad FHM lovelies (oh hang on…..). Men may say they prefer their uncomplicated friendships, centred around activities and bloke-y type conversations about certain topics. Yet when they face difficulties in their lives, they need to talk too, probably turning to the women in their lives to do so. It is part of the human condition surely, to be moved by emotions.
It is true that there are women in the world who take great delight in excluding certain other girls from the inner circle. Their personalities are an unattractive blend of snide, vindictive and spiteful. I have encountered these females through school, university and sadly well into my adult life. Generally, these are not the woman I tend to associate with, preferring to keep a safe distance from the former group.
My friends are women I can implicitly trust. They are generous, thoughtful and caring. I mean true friends here, not the many acquaintances one seems to accrue by being on Facebook. (I don’t stage vendettas against them either, to be clear). Our busy lives mean we may not be able to see or be in touch with people as much as we would like, but we can pick up the threads of friendship easily when we do. We support and want the best for each other. We are not jealous of these friends’ other friendships. That sort of attitude has been left behind in the playground for us.
I would argue that this is the more typical attitude of women to each other when they have passed the age of fifteen. By and large, this jostling for supremacy among the younger, more vulnerable female species is to establish who is top dog (or cat) and therefore worthy of the man’s attention. And while women are still judged more by their physical attractiveness and ‘marriageability’ than their achievements, this behaviour will remain rife. Enjoy FHM (Page 3 in all but name) boys….
some of these...
Rants appeared as ‘My Pet Peeves’ for a blog on The Argus. Everyone has pet peeves. Maybe yours is 'people who have pet peeves'. That's fine. You bog off and be peevish about that. These are my peeves and I'll cry if I want to.