Many years ago, before the days of crease-free-no-iron clothing, people carried travel irons with them. Small, with folding handles and dual voltage, these little irons saved the day.
I bought a travel iron to take to Africa with me when I lived in Mali as a CUSO volunteer. It served me well. Little did I know then what shenanigans Little Miss Travel Iron would get into once we got back home.
Off she flew to the Cayman Islands with my mother and sister, where I’m told she did not once do her job, refusing to iron anything, claiming beach wear didn’t need to be ironed. Apparently she lounged around soaking up the sun the whole time.
Off to Australia and New Zealand with my mother, she did iron quite often in an attempt to keep warm. Selfishly, she found a way to be comfortable in homes with no central heating.
Off to Italy with my daughter and in this instance, a little side trip to Sicily all on her own with my daughter’s luggage. The iron has kept maddeningly mute on the subject of this trip, but couldn’t hide a scratch or two. Results of an encounter with the mafia? We’ll never know.
Off to Mexico with a good friend, she came back suffering from an overdose of tequila and/or cerveza.
And then to China with another friend. Did the little hussy have no morals at all? Came back complaining about the food. Didn’t care for noodles.
And where is Little Miss Travel Iron now? Long gone to travel iron heaven, where I’m sure the floozy is gallivanting, dancing, and winking at all the cute male travel irons.