After craving a nap all day at work, I get home and lie on the sofa. For some white noise I turn on the TV. But Simpsons is on. So now, out of both respect and desire, I cannot and I will not go to sleep.
Once the ad break hits, at 6.08pm, I use the 3 minutes 30 seconds to do what I should have done a long time ago. I turn on the tap full hot plus a quarter turn on cold. 24 hours is a long time in the washing up world. Dirt becomes stubborn and odours muster. This would actually lead to a too hot sink if I was filling any more than half. But I’m expecting minimum involvement past my knuckles. I add jumbo green fairy liquid original from the notquiteapoundshop which changes its name with each lunar cycle.
My grease sheened baking tray has been straddling the front two hobs since overcooking sausages yesterday (Captain Jack was fighting the Kraken and I couldn’t look away). I wedge it in the sink, parallel to the sink floor and the ceiling. It’s the largest model big Waitrose had in 2017 and so doesn’t rest on the sink bed but is suspended halfway up. A mechanic could work on its underside if need be. I have to fill the sink fully to compensate. It’s a mistake I make a surprising amount given it’s the only utensil I use. The bubbles thin to retain surface area coverage and keep themselves imposing. I consider gloves but I’d have to open a new packet.
I’m forced to use the yellow part of the sponge to absorb the grease. It works but puts on calories it will likely never lose. The only way I think I could extract the oil lodged in SpongeBob’s pores is a quarter sink of boiling water spiked with a cocktail 2 parts fairy liquid yellow and 1 part Bold 3 in 1 laundry detergent. But this could as easily kill the patient as save it.
I lift the tray out of the water and run the tap on full heat over it to let the few bubbles that remain from my aggressive surfacing slide off.
Next I use a technique I learnt from watching a pair of middle aged women on their way home from IKEA Wembley on the underground in the height of summer.
I fan the tray in the air like an iPad which has just been dropped in a toilet. The water is now either in the corners of the tray or on the walls.
I put it directly in the oven, middle shelf. Shut the oven and turn the temperature to 180. At this point I haven’t looked at any cooking temperatures nor times on packets. 180 is my base. Good enough for Phil “The Power” Taylor, good enough for me.
Simpsons is now 2 minutes into the second half. I watch the remainder then go back to the oven.
The oven lamp is broken so for the warm up phase I go by the light carried from the lounge, I’m yet to turn on the kitchen light. A single oven mitt on, I put the tray back onto its double stove resting place. By this point I’ve decided sausages will be involved in tonight’s 1 ingredient meal. Ainsley Harriott for once looks confident as I empty my bag on Ready Steady Cook.
The only thing worse than cleaning excess sludge off the next day is threatening the non-stick with a metal chisel to peel off dry sausages. So I reach for the olive oil and drizzle. Noticing no sizzle, I take no action but resolve to keep my ear to ground going forward.
Put the tray back in the oven. Switch the TV to Channel 4 +1. Ready to watch the two minutes of Simpsons I missed while I eat my dinner. Come Dine With Me will taxi me to the oven light clicking off. The signal I can retrieve my darts and phase 2 can begin.
But with Simpsons about to restart, there still hasn’t been a click. The oven remains uncocked with a loaded chamber. I arm myself with my single mitt and take out the tray. The oil is immune to my shaky hands and runs less than me. I’m past denial and now accept there’s a problem. I aim to drop down to my haunches but settle for left knee up, right down.
Zero heat on my face. Possibly coolest place in the flat given the oven fan is still working and blowing.
I tentatively start touching stuff like I’m on a Bushtucker trial. I build up from the shelf through to the back wall. Oven remains “on”.
Then I notice there’s no red glow. The whole hole in the wall is cold to the touch. Narnia under the premiership of the White Witch… Oh NONONO! The element is broken! I’ve been taken completely by surprise.
Blind sided, I know I have three choices:
- Finally take advantage of the extortionate British Gas Homecare policy I pay for and get it fixed.
- Go back to living with my parents.
- Upgrade to Plus.
Almost before I finish the thought, I reject using my insurance. I always forget my password for the website and I must nearly be at an additional 3 figures on the end of my usual password. I worry if I hit “Passuuord100” I might (rightly) be taken into care. (To date, this password structure has never been hacked and I don’t even have to feel guilty for lying if I’m asked to spell it out at replica gunpoint by an e-scooter rider).
The next option intrigues me. It’s been years since I had seasoned food without other diners sitting next to me. Would it be so bad returning home for a few years?
My ego reminds me I can’t do it.
Most kids lobby their parents for a dog. I begged mine to release me from my north facing prison. The never ending Scandinavian winter having a greater toll on my teenage life than my lack of social skills.
When I got my own flat my only non-negotiable was a south facing bedroom. After some back and forth with Rightmove, where I threatened litigation for there being no sunlight intensity filter, I eventually got what I wanted. We settled out of court and I was awarded a manual telephone search with Emily from Customer Service. I set out my requirements and she looked at each property on Google Street View. She possessed a friendly professionalism but, without her making a sound, I could still hear her deflate when I told her I wanted to cast my net far and true.
Apart from bedroom orientation I’m not particularly fussy and she quickly found one.
I moved in. My mood didn’t change. If anything it got worse because the solution I’d hung my hat on hadn’t worked and hope was fading.
But at least my sister’s childhood claims that I would dissolve if the sun shone on me were proved wrong.
I couldn’t lose face. Not in front of kin. My questionable thought process had forced me into option 3.
I simultaneously open the app and upgrade to Deliveroo Plus. Knowing this is an emotional decision, I don’t look at the price. It wouldn’t have influenced me.
I’m given the option to change the app icon from a pushbike teal to a moped midnight purple. I decline. That badge is earnt, not bought.