Strike while the Iron is Hot

Yes, I know. New Scary Picture of self, but was rather fed up with the Summer Scene and gently wafting flowers in old picture, when am back in my furry boots and thermals, while thinking seriously about whether to get out the Furry Hat.
Anyway.
To more Important Topics. Like Husbands.
Because sometimes Husbands can be a right pain in the neck.
No, really!
('snigger')
Was helping Middle Son with homework on Sunday evening. It was rather a dull task, with him finishing off a project about the Second World War, and me getting bossy about Fonts and Layout and Polishing It Up. Middle Son wanted to print the bugger out and go and watch X Factor. I wanted Posh Fonts, Smart Layout and Polishing It Up. As you do.
After quite a lot of Sulking and stuff, Middle Son was doing things with Fonts and Layout and Polishing It Up, when all the Bastard Lights went off in the house and we were plunged into darkness.
Out of this blackness came Husband's voice.
'Oh.' he said.
I said some Choice Words which contained the word Iron and Sodding and You Silly Bugger.
This was because Husband had decided to do some ironing and always fills up the water bit to the very top which means he blows the electricity Every Bloody Time He Irons. Almost. Am very slightly Exaggerating here but needs must and all that.
Anyway.
(It might be said at this point that am very lucky to have Husband to do ANY flipping ironing at all, and I would say, also at this point, that I agree. It's just then when one has been helping Middle Son with his chuffing homework ALL DAY and the electricity goes out JUST as it's almost done, removing the work that has been recently added, it is a Little Vexing.)
Anyway.
After some moments of fiddling around inside ink black cupboard trying to locate the one switch out of about 120, to get the electricity on again, and having GOT the electriciy on, and having seen that not ALL the work had been deleted in the process, Middle Son said to Husband,
'Daddy, WHY are you doing the ironing when you KNOW I am on the computer?'
Husband says, really quite Huffily,
'Well, if I didn't do it, it wouldn't get done.'
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
???????????????
**************ck.
Well.
Talk about Strops.
Big Stomping Strop.
Mega.
Me.
I did.
I went into a Major Top Quality Female Stratopheric Stroppy Strop.
Because while we KNOW that what he said was probably completely true, THAT IS NOT THE POINT. The point is that I must keep up the pretence of doing the ironing every day. Never must it be said that the ironing gets done ONLY because if it wasn't, no-one would have anything to wear. (Husband only steps in when pile reaches catastrophic heights.)
But this is not how it is in my head, OK? In my head, I iron every day. Snowy white napiery. Sheets. Shirts. Piles and piles of the sodding stuff.
So I stropped.
Marvellous, it was.
It stopped everyone in their tracks.
Even the cats.
I left the computer and Middle Son, and headed for the kettle. Which I put on. Very Loudly and with lots of Crashing.
Then I Laid the Table.
Smash, Crash, Bang. Nothing broken, you understand. Just Noise. Lovely, lovely Noise.
Then I fed the cats.
Boy, did I punish that tin. Crashed it down on the sink and threw the food sort of at the bowl. The cats didn't mind.
Then what? Oh, yes. I put the jam on the table. Well, sort of threw it and threw it again when it landed on its side. Picked it up and SLAMMED it down.
By now, a small, intent audience of four were watching. Husband, a little alarmed. Children, wondering what on earth Mum could be in such a strop about.
Middle Son sort of mentioned Ironing to them, but they were none the wiser.
At this point,Husband approached, and asked in milky, sweet tones, would I like some help.
I think I snarled at him. Showed all my teeth. Hissed with all the Spit I could muster that I Did Not Need Any Help At All, Thank You Very Much. Type of thing.
He backed off and sort of got on with Other Things in the kitchen.
Looking around nervously as things got moved about with some Vigour.
I continued my Strop with renewed Force.
Although was getting a little tired. Strops can be knackering, eh, girls?
Anyway.
Tea was finally made.
Scones! Jam! Pot of tea! Lovely!
And a boot faced, snarly old hag of a mother, scowling round the table at her nervous family.
Well.
At some point after my second sip of good hot tea, felt a little bit of a giggle coming on.
Looked Askance at Husband. Just as he was looking at me, in the same sort of way.
Snorted out some tea.
Wiped the worst of it off the freshly baked scones.
Sort of smiled at each other.
'Am really sorry,' said Husband.
'Yes, but you MEANT IT,' said I, regaining a tiny momentum of Strop again.
'But am really sorry,' said Husband.
'Yes, but you really MEANT it,' said I, regaining a little bit more Strop.
'Oh, MUMMY, Daddy has said he is SORRY and that means it's OVER,' quotes Youngest, in world-weary tones. The quote is from his Mother. Who is so wise about other people's arguments and such a child over her own.
'But...' I start. And stop.
'Am really cross still,' I mutter from side of mouth.
'Know you are,' mutters Husband from the side of his.
And we share a cheesy smile.
Ironing.
It's the cause of such Disharmony. It really should be Banned.
Trouble is, Husband would then do it, and then SEE how bad I'll look.
Oh, buggery bollocks.
He'll just have to do it like the guy below.
Might even enjoy himself in the meantime.