Joys don't come much more quirky than this one - it's ironing.
Now before you go and lie down in a dark room trying to recover from the idea of someone actually enjoying ironing, let me explain.
I hate the thought of ironing, the thought of wasting so much time getting so hot and bothered, pushing an iron around so that the creases are a thing of the past. This morning I went into my tiny utility room and was confronted by two weeks worth of ironing to be done. I hauled it into the kitchen and heaped it on the table, Not a pretty sight. And then I set to with the jolly old iron. There was such a lot to be done that I actually had three mini sessions and I used nearly two litres of water for steam. I can't stand long enough to iron so I sit and am rather slow.
I'm not one for music while I work so I was silent with time to think. Ironing is slow and rhythmic and I found that rhythm helpful. I remembered occasions I had worn the various garments and I remembered watching my Mother years ago as she ironed for the family.
But gradually the daunting heap diminished and in its place came a stack of lovely things. My favourite clothes, worn over Christmas and then slung in the laundry basket, are now available again. My lovely white bedding is fresh, crisp and inviting. And as I worked I realised that, despite myself, I had actually enjoyed my day.
But I'm still not looking forward to the next time!