Spindle V Housework

Darling pals, today I am being jet propelled by caffeine. I do not normally touch the stuff, but I accidentally inhaled around 2oz of the best ‘Colombian eyeball opener’ as I made my morning kitchen floor inspection. I shall insist that an ‘accidental’ inhalation is a perfectly respectable defence as it has been used by many a president and politician.

Since then, I had been very productive indeed. Congratulating myself on the tasks I had completed before my morning sherry, I kicked off the sling backs, cast aside my floral house coat and settled into my meditation hammock. 

I was however isolated in my sense of achievement. There was a slight verbal kerfuffle (with some mournful gnashing of teeth) going on in the kitchen so being an inquisitive hound, I pottered over to see what was going on. It would seem that enough was enough. I was unsure what the tipping point had been, perhaps the danger of a gravity driven clothes avalanche, the sight of Hector sporting his 1990’s pedal pushers or the very real danger of a semi clad Tiny Terror scampering about the house. I soon discovered the source of the ‘word sparring’.

We all stepped back and peered up to the peak of the mountain before us. The Eiger of ironing, which, in its current precarious state had accumulated a sprinkling of snow on its peak. Gloom immediately descended on Spindle Towers. “It is TIME” Hector intoned in resigned wail, it is time the ironing must be tackled. We had all been pretending it wasn’t there for weeks and weeks. I myself am not affected in any way, as most of my garments are crease free. I had noticed however that the staff of the Towers were beginning to look a little bedraggled of late.

This is not the first time that this has occurred. It happens with a depressing regularity. I really don’t see what all the fuss about housework is…and I may have said that out loud. What folly! Immediately the staff rounded on me and began to tell me how much of their day was taken up by clearing up the Spindle detritus and dander that I spread around the Towers. Well, I am sorry but those hound officiandos amongst you will know that hounds do not emit an odour that speaks of their presence…unless of course one has imbibed one too many scooby snackettes and one can turn into a one hound wind machine, ready too inflate a dirigible at a moment’s notice. We are also very clean, I myself pay particular attention to cleaning my paws and undercarriage many times a day. This has been commented on rather salaciously but I really do insist that cleanliness is next to being a happy, clean clam. Because if there is one thing I really like to do, it is to mix my metaphors with abandonment. 

I was given a challenge, that I should pop back into my housecoat and commence ‘Operation Househound’. Well…I hold my paws up now to you all my dear pals, it is not as easy at it looks. 

I had to be bodily extracted from the contraption that the wet clothes were limply collapsed over. The blasted thing snapped shut and tried to encase me in its metal grip. I was unhurt, I am after all quite a hardy hound, but it proved to be difficult to release myself from its bite. Hector wiped a tear of mirth from his gin flushed cheek and prised open the clothes dryer to allow me to make my dignified escape. I would also like to make a complaint about clothes pegs, which can deliver a very nasty nip to the lug hole if not kept under suitable control. Onwards I struggled.

The ironing board had been lowered to a height that I could approach with confidence. I was half way through my first travelling cape when it struck me how truly boring it all is, and it made my back ache…AND the steam button had accidentally been deployed and it had made my ears droop embarrassingly. I had no idea that domestic engineering was so hazardous. It was clearly not for me. 

Yes, enough was enough. I toddled over to the telephone directory on my electronic telephone device and phoned the only person I knew who could wield an iron with a majesty and magnificence that was unrivalled, yes, surprisingly I called Nelson.

Twenty minutes later he arrived at the door, fully kitted out in his police issue, zip up paper body suit.  This was apparently to prevent any shedding of Nelson, and also I suspected to keep his botty warm. I am delighted to say that he is still sans buttock toupee, however the autumnal days have bought about a chill that upsets him. Within a few more minutes he had fully administered himself to my favourite Wang and was going at it with enthusiasm, rocking his tufty tootsies to Transmission Vamp playing in the background. 

The human contingency of Spindle Towers watched with nodded approval from the door. This seemed to be an agreeable solution to our household woes. Nelson was happily helping us out in exchange (for Nelson always had a price…) for a large bowl of roast potatoes and a Dubbonet and Bitter Lemon chaser.

Until next time, may your ironing baskets be forever empty.

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