Thursday, 14 October 2010

Confession time

I’m going to take you into my confidence and admit that… I’m not the ideal daughter-in-law.
There, I’ve said it.
And it felt good.

Really, I’m nobody’s idea of the perfect 'nikokyra' (neat & tidy housewife). I’m a mouthy, bolshy scruff-bag whose dress size leaves much to be desired.

And no matter how much I love my husband and my son – and believe me I do – they are NOT my raison d’être.

Modesty does not feature heavily in my character, and I do demand recognition in my own right (‘Selfish cow’ I hear my critics mutter). And worse still, I consider myself to be better at some things than my man (‘shock, horror!’).

Hey, this Confession business feels good!
I grew up with the lackadaisical Sunday School/church choir/afternoon tea tradition (otherwise known as the Church of England), so I’ve never really had the chance to purge my soul.

Watch out, the floodgates could be about to burst!

Now, what else can I confess?

Oh yes. I hate ironing. With a passion! I know it’s a necessary evil, but I refuse to go with the Greek flow of ironing towels, underwear and socks. If I can get away with it, the iron won’t touch it. Fortunately the Other Half doesn’t mind – just as well as he never lifts the iron ’cos he “never learned how to do it” (‘yeah, and I’ve got an Honours Degree in it, haven’t I sunshine?’).

Don’t get me wrong, I will dutifully – though not beautifully – iron his shirts (I can already hear my feminist sensitivities screaming in the background), but I don’t pretend to get any kind of pride, pleasure or satisfaction from it.

And I LOVE to go barefoot (‘get thee behind me, slippers’).
I believe that according to accepted Greek wisdom, this IS actually one of the Seven Deadly Sins, leading to all manner of evils including painful periods, athlete’s foot, the current state of the Greek economy, infertility – probably the Black Death too. I’ll probably go straight to you-know-where for that alone.

Hey, I’m really working up a head of steam on this confession thing!

But, hang on a mo… something just occurred to me.
For confession to count, you’re supposed to repent aren’t you? Problem is, I don’t. This is who I am. Take it or leave it. Like it or lump it. What you see is what you get.

Luckily, I have a family (including the in-laws - most of the time) and friends who do take me for what I am, so it looks like I am saved – at least in this lifetime.

Not sure about the next one though…


  1. I have often said that I don't iron on religious grounds, i.e. The Religion of Me Not Ironing. In our house, if you want something ironed, you do it yourself, because all you'll get from me is a Paddington Hard Stare! ;)

  2. Alternatively, point them and their crumpled clothes in the direction of my sister's house. She claims to "love ironing" (and she thinks I'm the oddball!).
    Not sure how she'd feel about a load of strangers turning up with bundles of unironed laundry at her door, mind.
    Probably best not to broadcast her address to one and all, then...

  3. My god, you go barefoot! Don't you know this will give your rhumatism of the ovaries and cause infertility? Lol!
    I know what your feminist sensitivities feel about the ironing. Neither my husband nor I know how to wield an iron. But we have a cleaning lady who does it beautifully for us. If she didn't, I reckon one of us would cave in and learn. Because unlike in England, where nobody cares much what an academic looks like, in Turkey, you're not a respectable member of society if you're not ironed. And as a woman, I would probably take the blame for the state of my husband's shirt, so I'd probably be the first to cave in. Although come to think of it, no. I wouldn't iron his shirts. I'd say it was too difficult to learn how to do them.;)