My bedroom is a mess. I don’t mean it’s a bit untidy. I mean it looks like I’ve become a teenager or been burgled. Drawers stand open, their contents spilling to the floor. Piles of clothes lie discarded on the carpet, next to damp towels. The bed is unmade and on closer inspection, it looks like the dog has been in the bin.

I have not been burgled. And I can’t blame the dog.

You see it was hot and I was trying to find something to wear.

We are unused to this much hot weather here in Wales. I have summer clothes, but not a whole wardrobe full. Enough to go on holiday for a week and not do a wash. But to be honest, once back home it’s normally raining or snowing in August, so I go back to my vest and pully.

Not this summer.

Early June and we are already seeing days of 30 degrees, and it’s been like it for weeks. Bloody climate change!

Now, I love the sun. Give me a comfy chair in the garden with a good book and the dog out with the mister for the day and I am out there in my factor 30, soaking up all the rays.

And this summer heat is grand because ten minutes after you get the washing on the line, it’s all dry. I’m wandering around the house looking for things to wash so I can marvel at how quickly I can get a load sorted. So, my meagre stash of summer clothes could be washed and dried ready for the next day, or so you would think.

There is one tiny flaw in this plan.

Ironing.

I fucking hate ironing.

I love wearing freshly ironed clothes. I love opening the wardrobe and seeing all the clothes lined up, grabbing a dress, and getting on with my day. But then the clothes need washing. And then they need ironing again. And so, it goes.

My ironing pile is groaning. Some things I can ignore as it’s too hot to even look at them. Really, I just need to iron a few T-shirts and a couple of dresses and I’d be grand. If I did it once a week it wouldn’t be such a drama, but I hate it so much that I pretend it’s not there, shutting the spare room door quick so it doesn’t catch my eye.  

But I am getting desperate, hence the mountain of clothes on the floor. Searching in the depths of drawers to find something long forgotten, my outfit is more bag-lady than summer chic. Then in a hurry to stop the dog from doing whatever dick-ish scheme he is up to today, I dash back downstairs instantly forgetting the mess.

At bedtime, the mess still there, burying the duvet, too tired to face it, I slide it all to the floor. I will sort out all the drawers in the morning I say to myself, sleepily. But the next morning faced with the same drama of something cool to wear, I pull more clothes from the drawer and dash down to wrestle the dog.

I browse the internet, ordering summer clothes before the return of the big freeze. Ridiculously I now realise everything I have ordered will need ironing one day.

If only there were a solution to my clothing struggles. If only there was some way to have clothes to wear when you woke up each morning.

Urgh! Don’t make me do it! (the hormone shift of menopause has returned me to a teen!) I fucking hate ironing.

Do you like ironing? Would you like to come and visit?

Only please come soon or I’ll be stuck wearing a balaclava, an ancient swimsuit and a bed sheet, artfully draped around me, that if I squint in the mirror, gives off a faint impression of Greek goddess but is more One flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest.

But the bedsheet needs ironing, ( who the fuck irons bedsheets???) so if you could do that first?

If you need me I’ll be crumpled in the garden.