Ruby Grimshaw is unashamedly old-fashioned

I knew I was one of a dying breed who still liked to darn things – socks mostly, but also gloves and cardigans. When I wrote my column about it though, there were readers who emailed in to say that they were happy darners as well. “Bet there was no-one under 40,” was Daughter C’s comment.

Apparently, I also have to accept I am a dinosaur because I still iron. Even more amazing – I really enjoy doing it.
I understood my oddity when I told a friend recently, who was helping me with the washing up, where to find a clean tea-towel.
“Goodness me!” she exclaimed. “This cloth looks so beautiful it could have been ironed!”
“It was,” I replied smiling, expecting praise. “By me.”
My friend looked unimpressed. “Don’t tell me! You iron pillow cases as well.”
“Of course.” I replied, sensing some hostility now. “And my knickers.”
My friend regarded me open mouthed. “But that is so time consuming, so uneconomical,so unenvironmental, so, so…”
“Enjoyable?” I replied testily. “Ironing gives me great pleasure.”
It is true. Nothing pleases me more than seeing a mountain of washed clothes, all tangled and thrown together, turn into a neat pile of ironed laundry and

“I love the wonderful fresh air smell that comes from newly ironed sheets.”

I make it even more enjoyable by listening to the radio, preferably the afternoon play on Radio 4, or The Archers, and having a cup of tea always ready to hand.Bella, my moulting mountain of a cat, also likes it when I get the ironing board out. I suppose it must feel comforting to have one’s bottom on a nice warm pile of newly ironed clothes.
I can remember ironing happily when I was pregnant and moving everything into the living room and watching Coronation Street by sitting up at the ironing board on a kitchen chair.

My mother never stopped boring everyone with a story of how when I was two or three years old she offered me a handkerchief from the washing basket. It seems I got very cross, refused the hanky, shouted and made the motion in the air of someone ironing. I can’t understand why my mother was so proud of having such a brat.