My ironing pile has spiralled out of control. (I'm not even mentioning the dirty washing pile.) I have no idea where to start. I look in the utility room and I just want to die. Or at least get therapy.
I'm not sure if I can afford the therapy but I'm pretty sure that Mr T will wring my neck when he opens his wardrobe tomorrow morning and finds there isn't shirt.
I hate ironing. How do some people run ironing businesses? I would rather swim naked in a large pool of sewerage than iron for a living.
I was not destined to be a housewife. I was destined to be something else. Maybe a taxidermist. At least then I'd have somewhere to stuff my laundry out of sight.