Wrinkles and creases
A tale tall and true of taking things too far

A rostered day off is a well earned day off as most would know. Usually it is spent doing something for ones-self as they don’t always coincide with friends and families days off. My RDO’s are no different and is usually spent caressing the keyboard of the computer.

I sat on the balcony eating my sandwich and enjoying the break from fighting the computer. The skies had greyed, clouds were darkening and I could see a storm brewing. I reckoned it would be raining by the time my fourteen year old son has to go to work and I will have to drive him. He works casual hours after school and holidays in a grocery store.

Suddenly I remember his uniform is among the washing on the line and also recall my wife telling me, if it rains to bring in the washing. Dutifully, I do as asked and as a good gesture decide to iron my son’s uniform.

I know my ironing skills, although a little rusty are all right, so are my cooking skills; both learned as a kid and improved upon in the Navy.

I soon mastered the new aged shot of this and spray of that iron and set about straightening out the wrinkles on his white shirt. I am amazed at the ease with which this fancy non-stick, steam-spitting machine glides over the fabric and slides around the buttons. Leaving no tell tale marks, I may add.

I am soon lost in it all. I have the sleeve creases perfect and quickly line up the three across the back. I hold up the shirt and admire my handiwork. Three razor sharp creases in true navy fashion, one out, one in and one out. The gunnery chief would beam with pride if he could see these creases, so sharp they could cut butter like a hot knife. I hang my masterpiece on the hanger and reach for the trousers, anxious to remould the crumpled fabric into an item that will compliment my previous work.

Alas, the steam shooting, water-spitting monster begins to beep and buzz, but I soon figure it requires more fuel and embark on recharging its water tank. This momentarily calms it and I am quickly back into transforming the trousers into another masterpiece. Finished, I hold up the artwork for inspection. The creases so crisp, you would hear the air crackle as they part the air as you walk. I look at them with envy and pride and think, why couldn’t I have had creases like these, for Captains Parade.

I got so carried away with this fancy machine, it wasn’t hard to forgo fighting the computer and finish the ironing. Besides, I thought my wife only asked me to get the washing in: what a surprise it is going to be for her to see I have ironed it too.

I selected the items I was comfortable with: shirts, shorts, trousers and blouses and again recharging the steaming monster I set about my chore. The wrinkles dispersed like waves disappearing before the bow of a ship. I half imagined dolphins playing with the brow of the iron and before long I was left with the smalls and soft items.
This is where I started to flounder. There were no lifeboats in sight and I wasn’t about to ask the neighbour. Gallantly, I decided that enough was enough and it wouldn’t be wise to iron the bras or the socks. Geez! The hankies were bad enough. I sorted the rest into piles, wife’s, daughter’s, son’s and mine and stowed the monster on the sink to cool.

Storm clouds came over and the skies darkened. My son came in from swimming with his friends and got ready for work. I told him I had ironed his uniform, and he, as teenagers sometimes do, disbelievingly replied. “Oh yeah Dad. As if! Mum wouldn’t let you near the iron.”

It wasn’t long before the bellow came. “Oh Geez! Dad what have you done? You’ve ruined my uniform. I can’t go to work dressed in that, they would laugh at me.”

He stood before me tall and smart in his crisp white shirt and smart black trousers, immaculately pressed as if he had just stepped form Jenny’s Laundry and straight onto parade. “But, you look smart in them,” I began when he interjected, “But Dad, “It’s not cool! Ya! Got to get modern. Creases like these went out with the ark and I am not walking down the street like this. You will have to drive me to work.”

As I drove him to work, I tried to pacify him and reassure him that he looked smart, but alas, to no avail. As he climbed from the car, his parting remark was, “Dad, I know you meant well, but please, leave the ironing to Mum next time. Oh and I love you.”

I told him that I loved him too.

I sat in the car, and watched as he walked away. I admired how smart he looked with three creases across his back and the sharp pleats in his trousers. As I started the car I began to laugh loudly.

“Just wait ’till he sees his board shorts,” I thought as I drove away.

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