Such a Chore

“Let me rephrase. If you want to go to school in uniform that doesn’t look like it’s spent the weekend scrunched in a corner, you will do the ironing.”

Sky Alton
Writer, Gryffindor

“Tom, could you come down here?” I called.

I heard a few thumps from upstairs. I wondered if this would be one of the times where he’d conveniently lost the ability to perceive the particular frequency of my yelling but eventually, he arrived. I passed him the washing basket. Well, tried too. He didn’t seem inclined to take it.

“Could you iron this lot, ready for tomorrow?”

“But dad….”

“Let me rephrase. If you want to go to school in uniform that doesn’t look like it’s spent the weekend scrunched in a corner, you will do the ironing.”

He pondered it for a moment.

“What if I don’t care?”

“Your mother will care.”

He gave it some more consideration, then reluctantly took the basket. He was halfway out of the room when he stopped.

“This can’t be my uniform. It’s pink.”

“It is and it is.”

He stared at the pile of pink shirts at the top of the basket.

“Do you remember what I said about why we separate colours and whites?” I asked. No response. “Do you now see that it isn’t some devious torture to make chores that much more agonising and prolong the time it takes you to get back on the laptop?”

“I… can’t wear this. The teacher will have kittens. I’ll get detention!”

“I’m afraid it doesn’t look like you have a lot of choice.”

“Dad!”

“Sorry, I can’t magic nice, clean shirts of an appropriate colour from nowhere.”

He was staring at the basket in horror.

“Unless…” I trailed off.

“Yes?”

“You were also less than careful about clearing out the uniform graveyard under your bed and transporting it to the washing machine. There might yet be some survivors, scrunched in a corner.”

He dropped the laundry basket and hurried up the stairs to look. I lounged against the sink, wondering if he’d notice the irony that cutting corners could be both his downfall and his salvation.