We have a party to go to tonight, the Grumpy One and I.
He put on a shirt he extracted from the wardrobe. It looked a little crinkled, but in the right light and if you squint your eyes, it’s wearable. Except, it doesn’t go at all well with his pants, regardless of the lighting and how your hold your head.
“Get another one,” I advise.
So he does. He extracts this one from the depths of the ironing basket, in which also resides size 1 shirt belonging to Chippie, but that he’d have no hope of fitting into now, some cow print car seat covers, half a dustbuster and various other garments in need of a good seeing to with an iron.
This shirt also has no hope of being considered wearable-in-public, regardless of light or head holding positions. It is far to crinkled.
“Well,” I say. “Iron it.”
So he pulls out the ironing board and sets it up some five foot away from where the iron actually plugs in. “It’s a cordless iron,” he tells me, as though that makes a difference.
He places the shirt on the board in a position that I would never start ironing a shirt in. So I shrug and walk off. He follows.
“I set it up for you.”
“That nice, but actually, you didn’t,” I reply. The boards in the wrong spot, the cord will never reach and … there appears to be a burning smell coming from the laundry …
I relent. I move the board. I place the base of the iron in a reachable position. I set the shirt up to a much better starting spot. I make a lot of noise and a huge point about doing all of this. He sits and watches.
“Where did you learn to iron?” he enquires.
“Fucking stupid arse fucker,” I reply. “Why the fuck is it not steaming? Fucker.”
And I check that it is on auto steam and press the steam button 87 times in a row until it steams and leaves an iron-shaped pile of dust on the sleeve of his shirt.
“That’ll explain that,” I say. “I’ve only been ironing since I was ten. I have done my fair share. That’s why I dont’ do it now. Why do you ask?”
“Because you’re really good at it. Also, you should put a top on because you might burn your tummy,” he advises.
“Oh, so now I’m fat! Thanks. And I’m just good at ironing because I’m just awesome!”
“Um ….” he says.
“I think you’re just fat because you’re so awesome that your body has to be bigger to hold it all,” he ventures, warily.
I’m tempted to iron creases back into his shirt, and throw it and the iron at him. But the babysitter has arrived and I need to get dressed …