Yesterday, I ironed my hip bone.
It's like this, you see... I was getting dressed to go out for the day. I had also been out not-celebrating Oranje the night before. Anywho. So I selected shirt and jeanpants, but as usual, my outfit assembly took a while. So having got as far as brassiere and thongie-thing, I then decided that my selected shirt was in need of ironing. Yes, it probably would've been better to simply select another top, but who ever did things the easy way?
Anywho, so ironing board out, iron on, I get so enraptured in my task (and possibly a bit distracted by something on TV) that I don't notice when I step on the iron cord. Iron cord pulls taut, hot iron nudges in towards self. On to exposed hip flesh.
"Oh goodness gracious, sweet mother of an innocent child," I exclaimed with my characteristic and dainty restraint.
I have since then been nursing a blistered line in a rather indiscreet region.