ON IRONING
The other day, my six-year-old found an antiquated travel iron, still in its box, in the sideboard. “Mammy, can I play with that boat?” he asked, studying the picture. Now I am the first to admit that basic object recognition has never been one of my son’s strengths, but in this case, the explanation is simpler. The fact of the matter is this: I. NEVER. EVER . DO. THE. FUCKING. IRONING. Ironing is pointless. Ironing is neurotic. Ironing is boring. Ironing is a pursuit carried out by maniacs like: The Amish Pingu’s dad (Listen up, you featherheaded chump, nobody in your family wears clothes, even, so why the fuck are you ironing?) Anthea Turner. Atrocious Freak. Oh look. Pingu's dad is using a wicker basket to store linens. I'm guessing he must have seen the show where Anthea Turner tells everyone how "wicker baskets are good for storage". Wow Anthea! We didn't know that! Perhaps what I’m trying to say is this, folks. If you happe