Did I ever tell you how bonkers the French are about their ironing?
Children go to school perfectly pressed, the average Joe-construction-guy-on-the-street is with pressed shirt and creased pants. The adults; well we don’t even need to go there. While we were caravanning this summer we were astonished to find an entire room besides the toilets devoted to “Repassage” (ironing).
Pierre (with his comb-over) and Madeline vacationing in Nice sashaying down the dirt path from caravan to loo in robe and slippers en route to the ironing room to give their camping clothes a little freshen up for the day…never mind the obvious irony of the robe and slippers.
I mean it’s so public for Gawd’s sake…
Do you really think I want to see your greasy terry covered ass before my first coffee on a Saturday morning?? Eeeeeuw!!
When we arrived I turned up my nose deciding that our ironing status quo was just FINE. I found it ridiculous…but little but little we (I) started to feel scrubbier and more creased than ever until finally I could withstand it no longer. Once or twice a week now I meekly descend down the basement stairs to genuflect before my zippy-and-spitty-ultra-sleek –turbo-charged “Central Vapeur” (French for steam iron) to put our lives or at least our laundry to rights. Granted it does do the work in half the time.
But I mean really!