OH BOTHER!

Yesterday evening, I decided to round off my day's labours with the domestic task of ironing a few shirts. While I was setting up the ironing board, one of its "feet" caught the handle of the frypan, which had been on top of the adjacent cooker. It (the frypan) did a couple of somersaults with one-and-a-half twists, spewing its contents of adulterated vegetable oil over the floor, before landing, upside down, on the lino.

I said nothing - had I made an utterance, it would have been short and to the discredit of my Christian upbringing. I stood, surveying the scene of devastation, for a few moments. This was now the worst evening chez moi since the day my ISP went bust and I spilled the beetroot-jar vinegar over my art worktop, thankfully now more than a year ago. And I had yet to replace my old minit mop which I had recently consigned to the dump. I found an old shirt which had been designated a new career as paint-rags, boiled some water, found some detergent, and carefully mopped up the mess therewith.

The floor is now cleaner than it was before (good cometh oft out of evil!), and I still got my shirts ironed. Sometimes there's a quality of grim determination which emerges from the primordial soup of my inner being.

Or something.