Flying irons

It started as one of those days.

Two of my little grandchildren stayed at our house last night. I would not have been aware of their presence this morning, had I not opened my eyes just as they were leaving our room having, I guessed, been standing by the bed, staring at my sleeping figure for some time.
I should have continued to sleep or to pretend sleep for a few minutes more, at least. However, being Grandma, I did what any grandma might do, I said,
“Hello, you two,”
Now, every grandchild knows that if Grandma says hello, that means she is awake, ready to play/read/cuddle whatever you like.
My fate was sealed. I had an early start.
Some little time later, we were downstairs eating cereal poured from those little individual packets, because it tastes so much better than cereal out of the big boxes, when you are small. Luckily, Grandma always seems to have some in the cupboard.
Separating dogs from children, at feeding time, is always a bit difficult and Flossie managed to lie undetected beneath the table for some time, waiting for any dropped morsels of food. Charlie, a little hesitant, circled the perimeter, sniffing the floor.
‘Ignore them,” I instructed.
“Good boy Charlie,” said William. Charlie wagged his tail and moved closer sensing the promise of something tasty.
I decided to send Charlie and Flossie into the garden.
A little while later, boys having eaten their breakfast, I let Flossie in. There was no sign of Charlie but I decided he could stay out for a while.
The boys were whisked away, at 8.30am, by their nanny while their mum, now very pregnant, went off to work.

It was then that I noticed Charlie was missing. I could hear him barking but he didn’t come when I whistled.
A quick trip down the garden revealed him to be on the other side of the wire fence. He’d got through the hedge and then through another, now entirely invisible, gap. He could not get back.
So, off I went to call on my neighbour to see if I might go into his garden and rescue Charlie. He, of course, was very obliging and led me through the garden, even though it had started to rain and he was in his shirt sleeves. I did have the presence of mind to say I wouldn’t go through the house, as I was already a bit wed and muddy, (very thoughtful of me).
Making my way down the garden, a very long garden, I spotted Charlie still trying to get through the hedge and home. Seeing me, he went into a frenzy of delight and came galloping up the garden. By now it was beginning to rain quite heavily so I thanked my kind neighbour and hurried back home.
Stepping over the lines of neatly lined up cars that 2-year-old Elliott had left in one room, and clearing away the breakfast things, I decided to do a spot of ironing while I was in the kitchen.
This was probably a mistake as Charlie was sniffing round. However, heedless of danger, I grabbed the iron from the utility room, dislodging a chew bone from the work surface, as I did so. The chew bone rolled down the step and onto the kitchen floor. Naturally, Charlie thought his luck was in and made to get it.
“No, leave, Charlie,” I cried and iron in hand, turned to pick up the treat. Confused, Charlie backtracked, becoming entangled with my feet. In an inelegant, slow motion, cartoon fall, I tripped over Charlie, lunging forward, down the step, realising I had no option but to fall to the ground, since both my feet were now in mid-air. With the iron still in my hand, I was conscious that I must not smash it on the stone tiles.
Somehow, in that split second, as I flew through the air, wielding the iron on high, I managed to avoid landing on the dog and if not gently, then safely brought the iron to the floor, where I crumpled beside it.
I briefly wondered whether this would result in any injury to my person but thankfully, it did not. My pride was bruised it was true, but little else. I had even managed to grab the dog treat on my way through.

All this before 9am.

What will the rest of the day bring?