I had an ironing board in another life that despised me and would, without warning, collapse, leaving me standing there in my underwear and socks, iron still gripped in my extended right hand and with steam hissing from beneath it as I stared down at the shirt on the floor.

I've known others to absolutely resist all attempts to collapse their legs. You would throw them on their backs, undo the locking mechanism and attempt to force their legs into the folded position with all your strength and still they would resist. Whenever I did this, I felt like an incarnation of the urban cowboy, ropin' and brandin' protesting ironing boards and forcing them into submission while my unseemly language filled the air until my mother shrieked at me to desist.

You can tell people who are ironing board wrestlers by the bits missing from the tips of their fingers, lost when the board has suddenly collapsed, taking them with it and trapping their digits within its mechanical jaws. All ironing boards squeak when they are erected. This squeak is inbuilt at the factory and, like the act of ironing itself, is designed to drive you insane.

Tiring of the morning ritual of wrestle and squeak, I recently bought a pressure-packed can of lubricant and attacked the workings of the ironing board. It was all over in seconds. Sweet victory was mine. The ironing board had been subdued and reduced to its rightful place as my obedient servant.

Several days later I was performing the hateful morning shirt-ironing ceremony when my back started to ache. "Odd," I thought, for my shoulders were also beginning to hurt and my legs seemed to be getting shorter.

Cursed with the ability to self-diagnose fatal complaints within seconds, I decided that I had contracted a rare, exotic virus that had infiltrated my spinal cord which was now compressing. By the day's end, my knuckles would be dragging along the ground. I could end up as a guest on The Footy Show.

Doomed to a dreadful death, I'd be so contorted they'd have to cut holes in the coffin lid through which my legs would protrude. This would detract somewhat from the solemnity of the funeral service. "He died ironing" would be my epitaph.

Ironing is a task best performed in a trance-like state, for no person can do it while fully conscious and retain a grip on his or her equilibrium. Music helps, preferably something dirge-like to which you can sway, thus aiding you to achieve the necessary self-hypnotic effect.

I was in this twilight zone as I ironed on this morning and thus had not noticed that with each stroke of the iron, the board slipped a millimetre lower. As I ironed, it slid with infinite slowness towards the floor and I followed it down, still ironing, until I was squatting like a sumo wrestler.

"That's funny," I thought as I pulled the board upright, kicked it for its disobedience and started ironing again. Within seconds, it recommenced its slow downward slide. It took me 20 minutes to iron the shirt, stopping after every two strokes to pull the board back up. I could throw the board out and buy a new one but that would be a concession of defeat and it is not going to happen. I shall not be defeated by an ironing board.