Keith enrolled in a beginner ironing class because his wife, Ann, had stopped accepting “I might burn it” as a reason not to help.
The class was held in the community centre on Wednesday evenings.
The advertisement promised patient instruction, no previous experience, and a garment to take home.
Keith brought one shirt.
Five other men brought one shirt each.
The instructor, Ruth, welcomed them beside six ironing boards and a large covered basket.
“First, tell me what worries you.”
“Buttons,” said Keith.
“Pleats,” said Dennis.
“Anything with sleeves,” said Malcolm.
Ruth wrote their concerns on the board.
Then she demonstrated a shirt cuff.
“Small sections. No need to wrestle the whole garment.”
Keith tried it. The cuff emerged smooth.
He held it up as though he had repaired a bridge.
Ruth praised him and moved him to the collar.
By the end of the lesson, Keith’s shirt looked respectable. He asked for a certificate.
“That comes after the course.”
“How long is the course?”
“Until you can work without supervision.”
Keith said that sounded suspiciously like marriage.
For homework, Ruth gave each man a pillowcase from the basket.
They protested that pillowcases were not in the advertisement.
“Confidence-building,” she said.
The following week, Keith returned with the smoothest pillowcase in the group.
Ruth examined it carefully.
“Excellent. Did anyone help?”
“Not a soul.”
Ann had been watching television while he worked. He had even asked her not to interrupt his concentration.
Ruth moved the class to trousers.
Dennis objected that he did not own those trousers.
“You may encounter unfamiliar garments in the real world.”
Malcolm asked why the label said RUTH.
“It helps prevent mix-ups.”
Over the next three weeks, the basket contained tea towels, blouses, tablecloths, and an alarming amount of bedding.
The men compared techniques. Keith discovered he enjoyed producing a crisp edge. Dennis became fiercely competitive about collars. Malcolm bought a spray bottle and labelled it PROFESSIONAL USE.
Dennis requested a more difficult shirt because he believed the ordinary ones no longer stretched him.
Ruth supplied three.
He completed them before the tea break.
Keith watched with admiration, unaware that Ann would soon receive the same performance statistics.
At home, Keith still told Ann he was learning.
“It takes time to master these things.”
Ann glanced at the shirt he was wearing.
“That seems mastered.”
“Shirts are only one module.”
At the final lesson, Ruth unveiled a table with folded stacks.
“Tonight you will complete your practical assessment.”
Keith lifted a blouse.
“This is not yours.”
“No,” Ruth said. “It belongs to someone who asked whether our course was making progress.”
The men looked at the labels.
Dennis found his wife’s favourite skirt.
Malcolm found their dining-room tablecloth.
Keith found the shirt Ann had asked him to iron that morning.
He had told her buttons were still an advanced topic.
From behind the curtain, six women emerged carrying clipboards.
Ann sat beside Keith’s board.
“Proceed.”
Keith looked at Ruth.
“You told them?”
“They asked for a progress report. I supplied evidence.”
Dennis suggested they postpone the assessment.
His wife unfolded a perfectly pressed pair of Ruth’s trousers.
“Your portfolio is extensive.”
The men ironed in silence.
Every garment passed.
Ruth presented the certificates. Each confirmed that its holder could safely prepare ordinary household laundry without assistance.
Keith stared at his.
“This is rather specific.”
Ann took a photograph.
“Useful wording.”
On the walk home, he complained that the course had been a trap.
Ann agreed it had been remarkably well organised.
“At least I have graduated,” he said.
She handed him a carrier bag.
“Then why is there more?”
“Homework.”