An ordinary day. Go to work, work hard, come home, iron things, manifold them because it is a right shite humping a wee iron across the surface of a set of overly decorated and bedazzled super-king duvet covers and then submissioning them into a shape any woman, and it is usually a woman, can manage without personal harmage. I know that ‘housekeeping’ requires this effortitude, but I do wonder how many recognise the work involved. I do not include my bosses because I did elect to take this (small you would think) pile of laundry to help my team at the Best Cafe Ever. A doddle, you might suggest, but not if you are me with my standards, Had you watched me with ‘my standards’ you might have seen my head shake. My recall? Tapselteerie Kitchen, everything dark, all asleep and me ironing bed linen, napkins, table cloths, I could not go to sleep until my standards for me were accomplished. Stacked and warmly loved, I did climb the stairs. It’s my thing and still is.

This ironing thing….a few duvet covers, but with lips and otherness I never had experienced before….. duvet covers were squared off or rectangled off and with no lips or other suchness. They just fitted the damn duvets. Nowadays they need their own voice. Also, they don’t have poppers or buttons. They have folds and inserts and what is happening to this world, because it sure sucks for the housekeeping crew. No question mark required. Is it an aspiration for elevation, as if we look better for all the faff and unnecessary folds and flaps and buttons? I pass on that one.

I like ordinary. There’s a connectional direct with whoever I meet. We are raw, scared, wishing we had done things differently, all that and we meet on a colding rainfold street, looking for parsnips or the daily paper or for a delivery from the island vet or just to connect. Or just to look for parsnips.