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The last time I ironed, I was 18 and freshly arrived at university.  How hard can this be? I thought, brandishing said implement with a sweeping gesture that began on a blouse and proceeded straight up the tender skin inside my left arm. Horrified by my wounds, the boy downstairs offered to press things for me. And so began my Oxford romance, as my affair with the ironing board ended. Since then, I have either ignored ironing (in my 20s) or paid someone to do it (after the age of 35, when one ...