Obsessed by ironing

We all have our little idiosyncracies, you know, if only we'll admit them, even to ourselves.

Some are pesky little habits that drive those around us insane. Others are great, galloping obsessions and compulsions that control our lives.

I did a little market research on your behalf this week, and asked people I encountered - at risk of getting thumped - what their obsessions were.

I found there were a lot of sick folk out there and 99 per cent of you lot are included.

One chap admitted his compulsion for making lists, lists of anything and everything, but usually it was a list of jobs for his partner to do when she managed a day off.

The same fella admits to being compulsive about finding a bargain. Weirdo that he is, he will drive round different supermarkets looking to save pennies on cornflakes or cotton buds oblivious to the fact that he is spending a fortune on petrol.

If he saw a bumper bargain on dog food, he'd buy it, even though they only have a cat.

I know a chap who is obsessed with germs, whether he is passing them to others or receiving them.

With me - and these are only the ones I can confess in print - it's buying shirts and ironing them. If I see a shirt I like, I have to buy it. The total was 50 at the last count.

But I cannot let a Sunday go by without a marathon, early-morning ironing session, a mindless pastime before I sit down to write this column. I am obsessive about pin-sharp, single creases down the sleeves. I peer closely at other men's shirt sleeves to see if their wives have allowed a double crease to creep in.

A dictionary definition of obsession is "intrusive thoughts and images which we find difficult to stop, usually involving ourselves or loved ones." Compulsions are described as behaviour we are compelled, driven to do. That's us then.

I'm even obsessing over the fact that a colleague chose a similar theme for her column last night.

It might be cleanliness, neatness or fitness, but most of us have an obsession which might or might not be just short of clinical.

A gentleman I know has not missed an episode of Coronation Street for more than 25 years. His life is ruled by the times of the episodes. He once went on holiday and set his video recorder to save the programmes he was missing. But when he got back, a power cut had messed up the recording. He placed an advert in the newspaper asking if anyone had videos of those episodes.

I never noticed it until someone pointed it out, but I am obsessive about placing down my drink exactly in the middle of a coaster or beer mat. I almost have to use a ruler when setting a table and making sure knives, forks and place mats are perfectly aligned.

I am definitely not obsessive about texting, like one colleague who has to do it day or night regardless of distance. He will text me from ten yards away in the office. In the time it takes to type out a six-word message, we could have had a decent conversation. His texting fingers are so horribly calloused I wonder how he can pick up his pint glass (though he always seems to manage).

Anyway, back to my wife's obsession for gallivanting. Some of you think I am awful to Mrs H because I abuse her in this column. Not so, I'm indulging the poor pet. She counts the insults each week and banks them as air miles. As soon as she has banked enough abuse, we have to take a trip, even if it means I have to go with her (how many air miles was that, then?). Last week it was Amsterdam. Ooh, I thought, all that sex, drugs and rock'n'roll. Actually it was galleries, museums and tramping round acres of tulip gardens, even before they had stuck a stalk above ground.

Many people's compulsion is to lie. Do you believe a word of what you've just read? If not, I may be a liar and you may be compulsively suspicious. I'd see a doctor if I were you.