My own sordid ironing career, ala Shauny:

I used to quite like ironing. I used to do it any chance I'd get. Grandma loved me, because I'd always want to help her, and my Grandma irons everything.

Then there was the incident of the Barbie Skirt.

I decided my Barbies didn't look dapper enough, right, so I got all their clothes and ironed them. Everything was going splendidly until I pulled out Barbie's (and my) favourite black mini-skirt (even then I was a tramp, see?). Which stuck to the iron in a little melty puddle of goo. I was tearful. I was distraught. And though I calmed down somewhat when I realised the iron wasn't damaged permanently and Mum wasn't going to yell at me, I'd still wrecked the skirt. I'd loved that skirt!

I haven't touched an iron since. I was probably, wot, 9 or 10 at the time? Not a single iron since. I've had ironing done for me on two occasions, when various friends simply wouldn't let me leave the house Looking Like That (tm) but I've never lifted the dread beastie myself.

And now I have a bridesmaid's dress in beautiful green satin that needs ironing. Sod.

Muuuuuuuum!!!

PS: You know, gil, you really had me stumped with that email, until I came online and read my own site. And then I groaned.