Distasteful Ironing

It’s all over! They have gone home after five an a half weeks of steak and chips, cheesecake and the same stories over and over again and a bit of sightseeing.

You know the story of the jar straightening. You know the story of the bigotry. I have been selective in the tales I have told because of a) there isn’t enough room in cyberspace to take it all and b)I have a lot to live for and telling the tales, having lived them takes it out of me. There are some the just NEED to be shared, lest my head explore from un-vented frustration.

So to the tales of distasteful ironing. MIL and FIL returned from a jaunt down to Melbourning and felt compelled to do all their washing. Heaven offend that you should take dirty washing home with you after a holiday. So washing they did. Only the didn’t just do theirs. They went into our bedroom and took the few dirty items that were happy festering in the ‘laundry bin’ and put them into to wash with theirs. Now, I don’t know about you, but I shudder at the thought of my knickers (pants, kacks, daks, underwear, whatever you call them) going around in the machine with that of my FIL, much less the tumble dryer (or hanging on the washing line).

But it get worse! MIL irons everything…and I mean everything. So when I visited the house the other day there was a neat pile of washing on the end of the bed with a pair of my knickers, folded (they’re not that big) AND ironed on top of a load of Hubbies t-shirts. Eww! Stay away from my pants!

Calm blue ocean [breath in, breath out].

They have departed now…just back to the UK and they are threatening to visit again, so we are going to have to put up with ‘I can’t find anything on this menu’, ‘they all look the same’ and ‘where are the trains?’ comments all over again one day.

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