by Steve Peach

Created on: May 12, 2008

Ironing by Candlelight. - Thoughts of the Author in (much) Younger Days.

There isn't any doubt about it, but, just to be certain, I think it only fair to warn you that I'm fond of the odd drink. The odder the better. In fact, I've some bottles of home-made paint-stripper upstairs, labelled innocently enough as, 'Crab-apple', or, 'Apricot'. Don't be fooled. In the process of creating these concoctions, I think I must have accidentally stumbled on a unique chemical combination; a sort of blend of shark-repellent and extract of hyaena. I don't suppose I'll ever have the opportunity of testing it, though. After all, double-glazing salesmen are a bit thin on the ground around here at the moment.

I don't imagine you've met one ? The smile; the suit; briefcase and little samples of glass that he uses to ply his wares ?
They sell things, you know. Really expensive, divorce-creating things that stagger your mind and exterminate your bank-balance - things that need to be cleaned and paid for for years and years and prevent the sale of your house to more sensible people.
I bought it. Yes - the lot. Sealed units. Every window in the entire rabbit-hutch was double-glazed and therefore so much more secure.
My house was burgled twice. Both times, they removed the front door. Subtlety was not their strong-point. Heavy wooden frame, armoured glass........ boom !
Oh, dear. Sidetracked again.
You'll have to excuse the odd slip in spelling and sentence-structure, but it has been a very long day and I'm feeling a little tired and emotional, as the Americans say; or as we say, p*d.
I arrived home from the local pub quite some time ago, but an awful lot seems to have happened since then.
To begin with, I seem to have invented at least three new ways of committing suicide on a staircase. These are; the reverse stagger; the false assumption, (NOT fourteen steps but THIRTEEN.) and, finally, the ironing-board entrechat. This last is worthy of the Bolshoi Ballet, as it consists of two quite intricate pirouettes; the rapid descent of six steps with an ironing-board clutched beneath the right arm and the utterance of an extremely rude word, directed at the cat.
All I really wanted to do was iron a shirt. I've got to be up at six to-morrow morning. From my seat at this keyboard, I can distinctly hear Mr. Ladbroke and the entire National Lottery Panel laughing hysterically at the odds. I agree with them.
So, you've got the ironing-board, all you need now is an iron, plus something to press

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