I don’t mind ironing, although I don’t claim to be very good at it. There’s a certain homely charm in the smell of the fabric as it passes under the heat. However to be honest, when the alarm goes off and I have to make the decision to get up in the sub-10 degree weather and iron my shirt, or to sneak another 10 minutes beneath my toasty warm doona, I will invariably put the ironing off. Unfortunately this means that I am normally horribly late to work.
Tonight I decided to do my week’s ironing in one hit, so I never have to face this dilemma and can glide blissfully into each day without needing to complete any unpleasant activities before my first coffee, and hopefully not get fired.
Well, that was the theory anyway. Somehow tonight I have managed to ineptly ruin every single implement involved in the ironing process in a Rube-Goldberg-machine-like chain of destruction. I will recount to you how I found myself in this predicament.