Anarchy

Evening at the Chateau de Healy.
Entering the computer room I am mildly startled to see a clothes iron in the middle of the floor. The iron is lying there forlornly enough in a state of induced decrepitude.
The reason for its forlornness, (Forlornability? Forlornatude? Forlornification? Ah to hell with it!), the reason for its forlornness, and indeed its decreptitude, (Decrepitudinousness?), the reason for 'em all I tells 'ee, is that the aforementioned iron has just fallen victim to a rampaging sheepdog.
The electrical flex has been chewed through and the plug is missing, presumed eaten.
"Dog," I scream calmly.
Paddy Pup pokes his head around the door.
He really does.
He looks somewhat incongruous.
The reason for his incongruousness, (No doubt about incongruousness!), is that one of my socks is dangling from his mouth.
"Dog," I scream again. "You are an anarchist."
Having satisfied himself that I'm not about to bring him for a walk, Paddy Pup disappears up the hall to kill his sock in peace.
I meanwhile, set myself to disposing of the remains of the iron, so that my dear old Dad won't have a canniptian.
For the Dad loves that iron.
The only person he ever let use it was Ludmilla a young girl who stayed with us during the Polish crisis.
The Polish crisis being, that I invited Ludmilla to stay while she searched for work in this country, and then realised I had no clue as to how I would ever get her to move out.
Ah.
But that's another story.