So there we are, sat in the lounge at our berth in Nassau (where else?) when up comes Mr Ironed and Pressed. We’ve seen him a few times over the past week. Never the same outfit twice, never a crease in his trousers or shirt, his hair immaculately combed and glued into place. I’m sure this is the sharp dressed man that ZZ Top had in mind when they wrote that song. Not, of course, that he’d ever have heard of it being a classical music and opera fan himself.
Now my good lady is a bit of a stickler when it comes to ironing. I’ll never understand why she irons my socks and underpants. It seems so unnecessary. But I’ll bet Mrs Ironed and Pressed does his too. And his pyjamas. It must be a hell of a chore being so perfect all the time!
Ironically, we don’t see his wife that often. I suspect she’s in their cabin chained to the ironing board?
She’s also the scruffiest bugger I’ve seen for a long time. Oh dear…!