I have a confession. I would say a secret, if it wasn’t for the fact I’ve divulged it to others with a not insubstantial amount of self-satisfaction. I’m not confessing something I’ve done – quite the opposite. I’ve not partaken in this particular activity for, at a rough guess, the best part of a decade. For much of the time before that, I was young and fortunate enough to have someone do it for me. So here goes: ironing.

The word itself is not particularly inviting, is it? It sounds angular; awkward; best avoided. The highlight of this confession? I don’t feel at all guilty. Not a smidgen of shame. Now stick with me here – I can see the mental image of me adorned in scarecrow-chic sackcloth forming in your mind. Do try to curb your displeasure as I explain how I’ve skilfully worked this unconventional principle into my life. To begin to understand, you must first be aware of my reasoning behind blatantly flouting one of the principle rules of domesticity. It’s simple: Life Is Too Short To Iron.

I get by without ironing by using a strict - bordering on obsessive – set of rules for laundry. Firstly, choose washing machine settings wisely, based on colour, material and fragility of clothing. Ditto with the tumble dryer (if used at all). Secondly, and most crucial to those aspiring to be iron-less, air immediately after the washer cycle has finished. Or, when tumbling, fold as soon as the dryer has done its job. Preferably after the last full rotation of the drum, but as real life often gets in the way, I’ve occasionally left it a cheeky three minutes or so. If my iron could speak (and I do have one, a house-warming gift which has remained in pristine, museum-standard condition) it’d wail “My soleplate has never felt warmth! Why me?” to its god (the big Bosch in the sky, presumably).

I’m not telling you this to boast about my laundering loop-hole, or to convince you to follow my routine. Besides, there are some people who love ironing (apparently), and I’d never want to deny them that pleasure. My point is, there are some things that Life Is Too Short For. I’d suggest it’s healthy for everyone to have some action that fits that bill. An unscientific survey of my nearest and dearest came up with washing the car, unloading the dishwasher (though they had no beef with loading it) and peeling vegetables. Actually, that last one is mine (I don’t feel greedy about having two aversions). With all of these things the people involved don’t mind asking – or even paying – someone else to do the loathsome job, or like me, they creatively get round it.

What’s your Life Is Too Short For… task? You probably do have one, and if you’re not sure if you do, I urge you to formulate one. A shameless, conscious side-step of the duller aspects of life leaves us more time to do the things we actually enjoy. And who could ever feel guilty about that?