George was NOT impressed with my last Confession. Not at all.
I know this because George decided to get his revenge. For those who missed the last blog, George is my ironing basket, and we have a relationship. An uneasy one.
George did not like my veiled threats about further trips to the Al Farah Nour Automatic Laundry, and nor did he like the fact that I accused him of creasing my Dear Husband's uniform.
So, secretly, George plotted. He even arranged for an accomplice.
Early one morning I got up to iron my Oldest Daughter's school uniform. After I had finished, I realised I needed to iron something for myself. So I squeezed past the ironing board (on which the iron was gently balanced) to grab my favourite Gloria Vanderbilt jeans out of George's hold.
As I stood up, the iron jumped out and bit me on the elbow. Actually, thats an exaggeration. It didn't bite me, but it sure felt like it.
George, you see, had arranged for the iron to burn me. On my elbow of all places! A fat stripe of burnt flesh about 4 centimetres long above my left elbow. It stung, but being just a minor burn didn't hurt that much.
But I knew George had planned it. After all, its not exactly easy to iron your elbow. So I got my revenge in turn.
That night, our Babysitter arrived so that we could go out and eat at a fancy restaurant ). Our Babysitter, the charming Sonita, got bored, because the kids behaved like angels, and slept the entire time.
So she did ALL the ironing, and when we returned, George was empty (and Sonita got a bonus!). I giggled gleefully as I knew I'd got the better of George. Or so I thought.
Until the following evening, when the fat stripe of burnt flesh had turned into a greyish purple blister. George liaised with the couch, and the couch proceeded to rip open the blister.
The burn had not actually hurt until it got ripped open, exposing all the tender, raw flesh beneath. And that HURTS dammit. It stings it aches and it burns.
And, like the plumber whose tap leaks, living with a paramedic means that there are no plasters in my house. Not one. So my arm spent the night getting further shredded on the blankets until suitable first aid equipment could be purchased in the morning.
So my arm hurt, my elbow swelled, and the flesh stung and oozed. Fortunately, the ministrations of the aforementioned paramedic meant that it did not get infected. But it did still hurt.
And its all George's fault. His revenge. And while I sit, brooding over the giant plaster on my elbow, I plot and plan my revenge in turn. I just haven't figured out what it will be though.
But I'm working on it. You can bet I'm working on it......
Blerrie ironing basket.