Upon arriving home, I went to the kitchen to make a cup of tea and was greated by the sight of the iron sitting in the Â½ full washing up bowl in the sink. What is more, it was full of pink stuff. Knowing better than to assume anything, I called SWMBO to enquire as to whether the iron was there for a reason or had been thrown there in a fit of pique. It is being descaled, I was told, and yes, she had followed the instructions.
A few minutes ago I set up the ironing board and partly filled the iron to press a shirt for work tomorrow. A veteran of previous ill-advised descalings, I decided to test the iron on a tea towel first as invariably the thing spits limescale and brown sludge after such treatments. However, even I was unprepared for the hissing, gurgling and emission of noxious fumes that preceeded the enormous bang and foot-long sparks that leapt from the thing as it died, expelling one last wisp of smoke. Having reset the trip switch in the consumer unit and combed my hair flat again, I pondered on which shirt in my wardrobe is least creased for tomorrowâ€™s meetings. Having checked the stove thoroughly, Iâ€™m now off to cook chili whilst assessing whether SWMBOâ€™s skills have any military application, like descaling WMD perhaps.
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