“Didn’t you iron your uniform?” I called out to my thirteen year old brother, as he dashed into the room and reached under the sofa to bring out two packets of crisps (good hiding place, bro), which he stuffed into his school bag before rushing to the door.
He paused when I said that, looking guilty, staring at the door as though wishing it would gulp him in and away from this interrogation.
Then he said,”Oh, yeah!” really quickly and without looking at me, before swooshing out, his un-ironed blazer whipping behind him.
My mum’s voice, from the kitchen, “WHY DIDN’T YOU IRON YOUR UNIFORM!?”
“I know. Sorry!”
That was the front door.