Imagine the scene...
It was seven o'clock on a bright Sunday evening in London. I'd just moved into a new rented house, with boxes and suitcases scattered around my new bedroom. The final of Euro 2012 was but 45 minutes away. However, the working week was preparing to rear it's ugly head, and upon frantic unpacking, I found the shirts that I would be needing to wear to the office for the next five days. Needless to say, after their rough treatment in transit, each garment somewhat resembled skin that had been soaking in a bath for nigh on three hours. And when I dug out my suit trousers, I found them creased in all the wrong places having not been folded before being thrust into boxes amongst all my other worldly possessions.
There was one thing for it, I was going to have to do the ironing, that unavoidable menace of a chore (made all the more difficult in this instance by a decided absence of an actual ironing board). But the seconds were ticking away; there was no way I was going to sacrifice the greatest football match of the year for the sake of ironing... Constructing a rudimentary board out of a desk and an intricately folded bath towel, I set to work with the horribly antiquated behemoth of an iron that I had managed to locate under the stairs of my new property.
For the next three quarters of an hour, I did some of the most abominable ironing that I had ever had the displeasure of undertaking. Put it this way; I will never ply trade with a professional ironing company. Prioritising the cuffs and sleeves, the backs and shoulder panels of the shirts were left about as smooth as the Appalachian mountain range, and thank goodness the stains left by the old iron were as inconspicuously located as they could have been. And even though the task was completed with the accompaniment of comedy podcasts, I couldn't help but notice that aside from doing a sub-par job, I was also being horribly inefficient. In the end, five shirts took me 45 minutes! (I never even got around to the trousers). That's nine minutes a shirt! If I'd have had a whole week's worth of laundry to get through, it's fair to say that I would have been there until the early hours.
I started to think... There must be a better way than this? A professional ironing service, perhaps? A nice idea, though my salary is far from generous and a professional ironing company (let alone a London ironing service) would be nothing short of a costly extravagance. Nonetheless, it was still a tempting proposal in my case, given my lack of a proper iron and ironing board, when I considered the cost of going out and buying such equipment for myself. A professional ironing company would at least be able to provide their own irons and boards. So, where do we go from here? It'd be simply perfect if there existed a service where one could get their ironing done for them to the standard of a professional ironing service, at a negotiated price by someone that they could trust with absolute certainty. A network of trustworthy, skilful amateurs, if you will.
As it happens, such a service is breaking out in the London area, so you needn't miss out on the big game - or indeed anything else - due to tedious household chores ever again!
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