Back in the days before anything was open on a Sunday, the gentleman of the house would repair to the local hostelry and return home pie-eyed at about half past two. He’d then sleep off the roast dinner in an armchair, before it was time for That’s Life and then bed.
For his adoring wife there was but one thing to do: iron his clothes for the week ahead in front of a black and white film. As Bette Davis wept to a finale, the shirts would pile up neatly folded on the sofa. And this picture of everyday sexist bliss was brought to you by the city of Birmingham.