As I write this narrative, my significant other is in the kitchen attempting to brighten her dank West Yorkshire morning listening to classic old tunes (well, apart from Status Quo) on Magic FM.
As Karen ‘treats’ me to an out of tune version of a Tina Turner song through the open panelled door, the aural din is not enhanced by the sound of clattering kitchen utensils and crockery. This causes the most unpleasant sound I’ve heard since ….. errrr, well I was subject to the Status Quo song earlier.
I’m not sure what Karen’s up to dans la cuisine. I’ve already emptied the dishwasher of yesterdays pots, ensured all the breakfast crockery and last night’s wine glass now reside in the recently vacated cleaner and wiped down the kitchen benches. There wasn’t anything left to do in there!
Even the late billionaire and obsessive germophobe Howard Hughes, if he was still with us, would have eaten off the benches in there!
My betrothed said she was merely going into the kitchen to check what we needed when we do our weekly shop this afternoon. By the sound of all the crashing of crockery, the first thing on the list is going to be some new plates!…… It sounds like we’ve rented the kitchen out as a Greek restaurant!
My courageous missus is supposed to be relaxing to aid her recuperation from the cardiac procedure she underwent four days ago. I greatly admire her fight, stoicism in troubled times, tenacity and her lasagne recipe, however, her unwillingness to take advice on self-care can be deeply frustrating.
As my diminutive other half belts out ‘Tragedy’ in accompaniment to the Bee Gees, a crash of a metallic form emanates from the kitchen. I don’t know what’s more surprising, the fact nothing was broken in the cutlery crash or that she can sing the song at an even higher pitch than the Gibb brothers!
As I pen this section of the blog, I’m assuming there’s nothing else to break in the kitchen as Mrs S has just walked back into the living room. I didn’t make eye contact as she walked past, but out of the corner of my eye it appeared she was donning a coating of crockery dust.
As she was about to leave the room I questioned whether she’d completed her shopping list.
“We need some more bin bags, as the others are full of broken bowls and plates!” she responded. Before sheepishly adding “Oh, and we’re getting low on bowls and plates as well!”
I got up to survey the damage for myself. As I entered the kitchen, attempting to avoid colliding with Greek waiters, I didn’t know whether to laugh, cry or scream “Ahhhhh!” after standing on a carelessly discarded fork.
I firstly checked the remaining cutlery which had earlier been returned into their drawer by my spouse. Here, I saw my other half was right and the knives, forks and spoons were indeed unbroken; although whether they are still fit for purpose is questionable.
What I encountered was a scene of cutlery so badly mangled that I thought I’d stumbled upon a drawer containing Uri Geller’s post show props!
There will be those who point out to me that I shouldn’t be sat on my ass writing while my recuperating wife is undertaking tasks dans la cuisine de Strachan, which I’d agree with to some extent
However, in my defence, if my spouse of 28 years wanted me to break half of our crockery and disfigure the cutlery until it was unrecognisable she only had to ask!
