It was a fine day and time to tackle Peter's shirts and socks.

I  gave the collar and cuffs a good rub before rinsing them and as they were drip dry I did not need to wring them.

There was a long line in the garden and Ladyfach had told me to use it anytime as her daughter saw to her clothes. As I pegged the last shirt, I saw Ladyfach coming slowly down the path, saying there was a  pole I could use to hoist the line up.

She looked at the dripping shirts and I thought it might appear odd to her that I had not wrung them so explained the reason.  She said when her son had lived at home she had always ironed his shirts, drip dry or not, to make sure they were aired.

Later that day, when the washing was  dry, I put the shirts on the back of the dining chairs to air, because we had no airing cupboard, intending to take them upstairs at bedtime. The socks were on another chair.

When  I told Peter about the conversation with Ladyfach, he asked me if I'd iron his, too. Then he took the socks, held them to the fire and pressed them against the mirror.

'What on earth are you doing that for?' I asked.

'Making sure they are properly aired', was the reply. 

I was beginning to learn that you need the patience of a plaster saint when you marry. Not forgetting that the role is interchangeable, though.