I was a paying guest at that time. My owner had bought a new carpet and was flaunting it to all his friends. “This is original Egyptian carpet,” this friend kept telling me. One day I asked him whether I could use his iron box. “Go ahead,” he said. I was merrily ironing my shirt when suddenly the iron box fell from its vertical position and, lo and behold, what have I done! I was actually sitting on the same new carpet. The little cloth I had kept above it had moved. The hot iron box left an indelible mark on the carpet. “I will never forget you in my life,” said my friend, his face as red as the iron box mark on the carpet. “But you can forgive me,” I pleaded.
That was not all. That same day, another pal, FH, came to visit me. He went to the loo. And returned with a crestfallen face.
“I broke the toilet lid. Let me pay the repair charges,” he said.
All this happened during my first month in Sharjah.
Your guess is right. I was thrown out of the house the same month.
Why do I mention all this after eight years? Well, yesterday, a cousin of mine who is temporarily staying with me did the same mischief to me.
Plz do not tell my wife that her loved possession, a majenta colour Turkish bed cover, now flaunts a lovely hot iron mark. Just like a handsome boy kissed by a beautiful girl with her lipsticks on.