I sit looking at the old tea caddy decorated with an ancient scratched coronation picture. I am at Mrs B's with the last ever batch of ironing. She is brewing me a proper cup of tea with tea-leaves (none of this teabag stuff!)There is a magnificent patchwork tea-cosy on the tea-pot and a plate of hot-cross buns next to it and some Tesco finest strawberry jam. The mood is sombre. Mrs B has been with us for longer than I dare think. She started cleaning our first house over 30 years ago, and has been with us through thick and thin. When her artificial leg finally became too much of a nuisance, she started doing our ironing, and my god could she iron! Even my shirts with frayed and battered collars and cuffs came back looking as though, put them in cellophane and they could have sold as new! I must admit it has always been one of my little luxuries to have a shelf full of folded shirts. Liz tells me I now have to get used to hanging up my shirts in the cupboard - neither she nor I can fold to save our lives (let alone iron, actually) and anyway, life is too short----Now my 60s retro black polo necks seem a good option --except summer is coming. I am not a jeans and T-shirt sort of chap but the LandsEnd seersucker shirts aren't atall bad, and they don't need ironing! Anyway, Mrs B is moving on, as indeed are we, hopefully, so it will no longer be economic to drive all the way over to the other side of London with a basket of ironing every week. So fare-well, Mrs B -- you were a treasure every home should have, and we shall put on a cuppa and raise our mugs to you.