It's the day before my mate gets married and I'm in a hotel room looking at a damp rag not knowing if I should laugh or cry.
Earlier today I was driving down various different motorways and A-roads towards a lovely area in The Cotswolds. My girlfriend acted as 'Sat-Nav' giving me directions as I went along. She did it really well and we managed to avoid the stereotype couple arguing about our map reading skills. My attitude is simple: I'm sh#t with maps so if we do make a mistake it's not nearly as bad as the one I would have made. In the back of the car I've got the only thing I need, three clean shirts I washed yesterday night. One of them has the correct collar for a "dickie bow tie" and the other two are back up shirts. You know, in the unlikely event something goes wrong.
The Hotel we're in is lovely. Parts of the building were built in the 1400's. This means some of the doors are quite low* but it's got a real sense of character to it. Brilliant.
We unpack in our room and I check round to see if there's an iron anywhere. The answer is no. My shirt really need ironing, best to sort it out now rather than tomorrow on the morning of the wedding. I am going to be Best Man after all. I want people laughing at my speech, not my shirt.
"Ah, yes, now, let me think. We do have an iron somewhere. Which room are you in?" says the slightly stern woman who runs the place with her husband.
"Right, I'll just go and have a look, if I find it, I'll bring it round for you".
My internal monologue fumes as I stride off back to my room, getting a little stressed about things; "F#ck's sake. 'If I find it'? That's insane. This is supposed to be a hotel. Not some blud-"
CRUNCH - !
"B#stard!", I shout, as I try and work out who decided to tw#t me over the head as I went out of the door. It's all very well to retain door frames built in the 1400's but what, I ask you, is wrong with making them a little higher up?
She brings the iron to my room reasonably promptly and I get to work ironing my nice shirt. It's not the easiest job in the world but I'm making reasonable, slow, progress. Then, to my horror, I paint a nice thick brown stain onto the shirt. Brown, not like trees or chocolate. Brown, like sh#t. It's come from the bottom of the iron. Some sort of brown stuff has melted onto the bottom of this iron at some point only to now smear all over my shirt.
I have a choice to make.
A) Throw the f#cking iron out of the window.
I take the latter. My girlfriend tries to get the shirt wet and remove the stain. She manages but as we're looking at it a second time it becomes clear that all three shirts have blue ink on them. Presumably this blue has come from the black linen cufflinks I left in the posh shirt by accident when I washed it.
When I came in the room I had a shirt that need to be ironed. Now I have a useless damp rag in my hands.
Going to M&S first thing tomorrow will be another exciting addition to an already very busy day.
*I wonder at what speed the human race is increasing in size? I'd guess that on average we go up by about an inch a generation. There must be proper studies into this somewhere. I remember as a kid I was considered tall, nowadays I'm normal height and there's other people who are much taller. I wonder why we're getting taller? It's these sorts of important questions which you will not find answered on this blog. Unless some clever clogs goes and whacks something in the comments section.