New York and Ironing Boards

I have been a bit lazy recently when it comes to writing my blog. Perhaps it's because not a lot has irritated me of late -- I haven't needed to vent my feelings with a good old rant into cyberspace. But since it appears I have a follower (yaaaa!!!) I will endeavour to pull my proverbial socks up.

Actually, in my defense, I'm not so much lazy as been occupied elsewhere. I've had a rare thing -- a holiday. I visited my favourite city, New York, with my son and husband, where we stayed in a beautiful, old hotel in the trendy Upper West Side. But was it the chic interior that thrilled me? Was it the fact that Mark Twain and other famed people stayed there that made my heart flutter? Perhaps it was the stylish gym that tickled my fancy?

No. It was the fact that our room had...drum roll...an iron and ironing board.

When your luggage arrives on the airport carousel looking as if it's been chucked out the airplane at 35,000 feet -- trust me -- you need an iron. Especially when we were due to be in the audience of the Good Morning America show the next morning. Sod's law, if we looked like three scrunched up packets of cheese and onion crisps, the camera would seek us out.

So, while the rest of my family hung out of the bedroom window ooohing and aaahing over the Big Apple, I was happily bashing away on the ironing board. I guess it's true. You can take the girl out of the cleaning cupboard but you can't take the cleaning cupboard out of the girl.