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My iron died.
Half way through a T-shirt. I saw a faint waft of smoke rising, so I think it's really gone. This iron has traveled many miles; smoothed suit jacket and sari, meri-blous and school shirt. It's grimy on one side, with a residue picked up in Pokhara, and smooth on the other by frequent use. I've even got a shiny scar the hot nudging of this iron on the inside of my wrist. Goodbye my trusty friend. It's been a crease free 17 years. Penny Reeve, 2015.
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The Penny DropsIn high school I used to write what I'd call 'thinks' - little bits of writing about whatever topic or issue I was mulling over at the time. I still write these little pieces. Categories
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