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Each day I am overwhelmed by the thrills of managing the vast empire that is my home. And as the kids leave for school each morning, I am amazed by the devastation wrought on a domestic residence by two half grown members of the species. Most days I count myself lucky to have found the carpet by the time they return from their foray in to the world of education. And if, by some miracle, I’ve managed to prepare a healthy and nutritious meal by the time the warble of the Coronation Street trumpet begins, then I count that as a successful day.
But… every now and then I have an out of this world day. By means that transcend my own knowledge, I get something done. Over the years, the magnitude of ‘something’ has gradually dwindled until finishing a load of ironing is sufficient cause for celebration.
But today. Well, today will go down in the annals of history. Why?
Because today, I managed to CLEAN the saucepan cupboard. Now that may seem like a bit of a naff thing to get excited about, but you can have no idea what kind of a battle that was. There were grease blobs that had gained citizenship and were establishing their own colonies with trade centres connecting their infrastructure with saucepan cupboards all over the world. And of course, as soon as the shelves began to take on the aspect of something that has a passing relationship with cleaning fluid, the pots and pans revealed their true state of yuk. And, as is the way with these things, as soon as pans began to resemble their original conditions, the cupboard under the sink started to look particularly embarrassed. As the contents were removed, restacked and replaced, other cupboards join in, offering safe haven for articles that, until then had been considered food for the dustbin, vowing allegiance to all and sundry, claiming with such dedication and fervour that you waiver, reconsidering whether you may, at some vague time in the distant future, possibly, if there’s an ‘r’ in the month consider the possibility of using that container.
After all that, I had to sit down with a strong cuppa. Which of course… you’re there ahead of me… meant that the teapots and mugs all needed to be overhauled. By the time the kids came home, I was a quivering mass of nerves, lurking in the corner of the sofa. Uncharacteristically, they decided that they would get their own supper. The now sparkling microwave dinged, and plates of food marched in, supported by two rather proud looking children. True, they may have left things to cook for a moment or two more that was usual, but the thought was there, and it’s amazing what tastes you can cover up with tomato ketchup. Somewhat calmer and feeling more than a bit touched by the gesture of a t.v. dinner being brought to me, I felt able to go back into the kitchen.
Big mistake. Until that moment, I had never realised just how many pots, pans and utensils are needed to prepare a families micro meals.
Ah well, where did I put that scourer?