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Ironing … most people’s pet hate … this week, Ellen Lynch shows us how, with some judicious planning, this chore is ‘almost’ satisfying!

Ironing. One of my least favourite household chores. A necessary evil though if, like me, you dislike the rumpled look.

Yes, I'm one of those that irons tee shirts though not, thankfully, strange enough to iron underwear. Well I used to, but I found a support group that helped me break the habit. Just kidding. I realised I could considerably reduce the time spent ironing with a bit of judicious planning.

Anything that can go on a wrinkle-free wash and gentle spin does. Liberal amounts of fabric softener helps too. I stand poised at the washing machine, waiting to grab each item as soon as the cycle is finished, to pat it down, smooth it out, render it crease free.

Then, if it's going on the line I'll hang it with the greatest of care. When it's time to bring it in off the line I'll remove it carefully, piece by piece, folding again and smoothing as I go. That way nothing gets wrinkled in the first place, and can be put away tidily without ever having to see the iron.

I do the same with the dryer, pouncing as soon as I switch it off to get the clothes before they have time to gather into a tangled heap, repeating the patting and smoothing routine.

I arrived home from town a couple of months ago to see a pile of washing thrown on the sofa. I was horrified. "I brought it in for you, it was starting to rain," my beloved told me. He was chuffed at his good deed. I was gutted. He had just consigned me to an evening's ironing I hadn't planned on. I looked at the heap of rumpled clothes and looked at him. I bit my tongue.

He was working in the garden on Saturday afternoon when he felt drops of rain. I saw him, through the window  heading towards my full line of clothes. "Noooooooooooooo" I shrieked, throwing the door open and sprinting the length of the garden. I could see him getting closer to the clothesline.

I entertained the fleeting thought of rugby tackling him to the ground but with a final push of speed I outpaced him. "I'll get these" I told him through huge gasping breaths. He looked at me oddly but backed off. I was able to get them indoors, pat and smooth them, my equilibrium restored.

Some people just iron as they need stuff, one shirt, trousers or blouse at a time. I could never do that. Way too much hassle setting it all up. I say I don't like ironing but in truth I'm ok once I get started. I have a routine. Iron on the hottest setting, plenty of extra water to keep things steaming.

I start with the easy stuff, tee-shirts, pillow cases. I gave up ironing duvet covers at the same time as I stopped ironing underwear. They are just too big. Now what I do is place them over the ironing board and move them around every so often as I iron. That way they get the benefit without actually having to be pressed. I keep the finicky stuff, the blouses and the shirts until I'm well into my stride.

I have a favourite place to iron in the sitting room. It allows me to use, with an extension cord, the socket in the dining room. This is very important because I'm clumsy as well as left handed and I need to set things up for minimum mayhem. Even doing that I manage to burn myself quite a bit.

At one stage I had marks of varying shades of red going up my right arm. I've been known to drop the iron and even let it slide off the board. We've a triangular-shaped burn mark in the living room carpet to prove it. It's the reason I keep well away from the leather couch and chairs.

I like to plan my television viewing in accordance with my ironing. That way, it seems less like work. It has to be something  that I can follow though while only looking up sporadically from what I'm doing. 'The Voice' is perfect and it has the added advantage of being long and drawn out so I can get a whole week's worth done while it's on. 'Come Dine with Me' is another good one to iron too and so too is 'Four Brides'.

Speaking of weddings and ironing, I have a friend who makes wedding dresses. Beautiful big, elaborate gowns. She's amazing. I called for her one night to go walking and she was in the middle of ironing one she had just finished. I stood rooted to the spot, staring with a mixture of horror and fascination at her pressing down with what looked like a very hot iron on the dress she'd just spent hours and hours on.

"Never scorched one yet," she responded to my unspoken question. I had a nightmare that night. I dreamt she'd asked me to iron part of a wedding dress she had made and I burned it. The bride was coming to collect it and it had a hole burned right through it. She was livid and I was frantic.

I have been known to scorch things in my time. I burned the Christening robe that had been in our family for generations, just hours before my son was due to be baptised. I burned my daughter's favourite dress, the one she was about to wear to a birthday party, when she was seven. She's 30 now and she still brings it up.

When I think of all the ironing I've done over the years though, my record isn't that bad. When my kids got older I left them to do their own ironing. They never bothered of course. The lads had a ploy that worked well. They would come downstairs in the shirt they wanted to wear out and stroll by me just long enough for me to see the wrinkles.

"You're not going out in that!" I'd exclaim. "Why not? What's wrong with it," was the usual, casual reply which they knew was enough to send me scurrying to the kitchen to fetch the ironing board and iron. I ironed dozens of white shirts when my son started work in hotel management. He learned to iron for himself when he left home.

So did the other son, whose wife very wisely told him she wouldn't be doing it for him. The daughter is like myself, a slow, fastidious ironer. My sister, by comparison, can have a basket-load done in the time it takes me to do a couple of shirts.

There's a great feeling of satisfaction, at the end of an ironing session, in taking the freshly-pressed pile of clothes upstairs and putting it away, knowing that I have fresh, ready to wear, crease-free clothes waiting for me when I need them. Unless that is, I catch sight of the almost-full laundry basket and realise that I have to start the whole damn process over again.

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