I have always complained that dramatic things happened to other people and never to me.
I seem to spend my life watching other people do interesting things.
My school diary had about one page that was about me, while the rest was all about,
What Shipali did with Aditya, What Shreya said to Ayan, What Karishma did to Farzan, what Shanaha told this one. What that one did. Omg Haw!
I didn’t do anything. I was just the voyeur. The watcher. Observing the drama. Taking notes.
I wish that was still applicable these days (even though I’m still take notes, but now they’re just about myself).
I miss the good ol’ days of being on an emotional plateau.
So last Friday I nearly burnt down my kitchen.
I left some oil in a wok to heat, barely left the room for a minute before I heard this odd crackling noise and suddenly realized
“OH SHIT!! THE OIL!!!”
I walked into the hall, which had filled with a deeply ominous thick smoke floating at the top like rolling black waves.
The kitchen was pitch dark except for this eerie bright orange glow over the hob coming from the wok that was by now entirely engulfed in flames.
Being the pro that I am in a difficult situation, I then ran around in circles, waving my arms and yelling at the top of my voice,
“OHMYGODOHMYGOD! MONTY! THE KITCHEN IS ON FIRE!! THE KITCHEN IS ON FIRE!!”
I didn’t even think of turning the hob off. It was still burning away merrily, as I ran in a circle. I couldn’t think at all. We didn’t even have a fire extinguisher. I kept looking for this fire extinguisher we didn’t even have.
Monty hadn’t even noticed all the smoke. He came out of his room slightly confused before beginning to swear profusely and open all the doors and windows. He ran into the kitchen and quickly took the flaming wok outside.
He told me later that he just assumed the burning smell was my cooking.
The fire alarm never went off either (although if I must be honest, it going off would probably have panicked me even more).
Finally I remembered to turn the burner off. The wok had burned itself down outside in the cold. Then at last I could witness the devastation around me. Smoke everywhere, the plastic panels over the cooker hood lights had melted and warped, an oily soot covered the grill as well as the sides of the cupboards, while the exhaust and charcoal filter inside the cooker hood was a melted wreck of plastic and soot.
When I opened the cooker hood I the charcoal from the damaged exhaust exploded and spilled just about everywhere. (I spent half the night cleaning up all the bits of charcoal and burnt plastic.)
At this truly beautiful moment my ex walks in.
That’s when the drama really started.
I got a the evil eyes, scoldings and unhelpful sarcastic remarks.
That’s all well and good, but when things are going wrong the last thing you need is someone just telling you that things are wrong and how stupid you are. How is that helpful?
So I was in no mood to have my lack of any common sense rubbed in my face. I felt that any “I told you so’s” could have been saved for later, when there was less cleaning up to be done.
Additionally if anyone should have had a go at me, it was Monty, (and he was really helpful and not horrible at all.)
So I yelled.
If the ex wasn’t going to be helpful then the ex might as well just go. These nasty glares and stank face were seriously not required.
So the ex ran off into the street in a huff, to go back into town.
On the streets of London at night, one of the most persistent sights is groups of people, or couples, yelling, screaming and generally having a brawl.
You always look at them and,
- Hope they don’t start brawling with you.
- Smile because it’s so ludicrous to quarrel on the street. You would never do it.
Well the ex and I fucking did.
Half way down Brixton hill and back, at 1:00 in the morning.
Swearing, yelling. All sorts of abuses and accusations all triggered by my burning down the cooker hood.
By the time we got back to the flat and the ex had settled for the night on the living room couch, I thought
“This is it, for sure. It’s over now.”
By light of day, happily, things were much more reasonable.
We both woke up with sore throats and the urge to kiss and make up and then make some puri bhaji. (Which I was trying to make before all hell broke loose.)
I priced a new cooker hood and it was to my relief less expensive than I had feared.
Now I must call them up and ask them how the hell can I fix the damn thing to my wall.
It is not less expensive than I feared.
It is, in fact, exactly as gutting wrenchingly pricey as I imagined it would be.
Well no holiday for me in Easter. No shoes, no books, no nothing for a good while.
Damn. DAMN DAMN DAMN FUCK!
Why don’t I have a time machine?