Daily Archives: February 1, 2015

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They say you can bear anything if you can tell a story about it.

Once upon a long ago,
Stories happened, I dunno …

It’s a pity so many stories start with once upon a crime, but they do and mine did, and perhaps yours did too. And for far too long, the damn and damned crime defined me. By the time it stopped – by the time I stopped it – it was too late for what feels like everything.

Checkitout, this is my life – not all of it and not always, but still …

It isn’t like that now. I’m hell bent and determined it won’t be that way again.

Once upon a something or other …

There was a beautiful and brave dragon … weeellllll can you imagine me as a princess? I freaking hope not. The dragon was blue, hir wings shone silver by moonlight and hir talons were pretty damn nifty. Yes babies, we are making old lizardlips a hero for a change. Ze subscribed to the Joseph Campbell theory of heroism, sacrificing hir individuality for the greater good. Blah blah threat blah battle blah nemesis blah fair genderfuck etc and so forth. *fast forward tape noises* The dragon fought fights and fucked genders and fairly regularly, set fire to everything by mistake. Ze believed in hirself and dreamed dreams. And so on and on and on … on a möbius trip. Then a thatched roof went caught alight, sparks leapt until the village burned and the people fled screaming. The dragon flew as fast and far as hir wings would bear. Ze landed on a beach and licked hir wounds and then …

… rewound to human.

Not important, because life ain’t storyshaped, no matter how hard you try to bend it. Happily ever after is as fraudulent as dragons. That doesn’t matter either. There are no absolutes. Crappily ever after can be achieved by accident or intent, so I’d rather set my sails for chance, rather than fate. And then shrug a zen shrug.

Argh.  All I wanted was to heat up enough water in the electric kettle so I could dump it into the little pot on the two-burner hot plate, so that it wouldn’t take, like, three hours to heat up enough so I could make some instant soup.  That’s all.

But instead, I was thinking.  I think a lot.  Too much, sometimes.

I was out somewhere out in Thinking-Land, and I had the electric hot plate burner–the burner that works–the other one gets vaguely warm, but you can’t actually cook on it–anyway, I had the burner that actually gets hot, heated up to maximum, so that when I got the water boiled in the kettle I could just pour it in the little pot and away we would go with the soup.

But.

Instead of that happening, what happened instead was that I set the electric kettle down on the hot burner, instead of the soup pot.

It could have been worse, I mean, I have in the past set my HAND down on the hot burner, which is not a good thing at all.

As it happens, this particular electric kettle, which I have never liked and have kind of wanted to get rid of, but since it worked I would not–this kettle is made of stainless steel that got hot to the touch, with a plastic base.

So when I set the kettle down on the hot burner, the whole bottom melted, and since I was still deep in thought, I did not notice this until the whole damn bottom of the kettle was pouring off of the hot plate!  I wish I had been able to take a picture, it looked so bizarre.  However, my main desire at that moment was to avoid the whole thing bursting into flames, so I removed the remains of the kettle and set it on a handy piece of tin foil that happened to be lying around.  I set this on the floor while I turned my attention to the hot plate.  Later I regretted this a bit, as I was pulling the sheets of bubbled-up floor paint off the wood underneath.

Fortunately, the molten plastic had dripped off the burner and was easily removed from the  sides of the hot plate.   Thank God it didn’t stick, or I would have lost the hot plate as well as the kettle.

The process of dripping produced amusing plastic stringy-things.  I threw everything I could get off into the garbage bin and shut off the power to the hot plate.

Then I turned my attention to the clouds of poisonous fumes that had filled the building.  Fortunately it is all the way up to 40 degrees Fahrenheit outside, so I opened all the doors and set up a box fan to blow the fumes out the back door.  This worked admirably.

At this moment I stopped thinking for a second or two, in order to think about why the fire extinguisher had not entered my mind during this melting-plastic mitigation process.  Really, even though the fire extinguisher is always ready to hand in my kitchen (or what passes for a kitchen in my current dwelling), it is scandalous and also dangerous that the image of a fire extinguisher never showed up among all the other images flying through my mind.  I will have to do more fire drills!

To my credit, I did have a plan in place in case the melted plastic on the burner burst into flames–a giant pot lid, left lying around after cooking my Shabbat meal, ready to smother any flames that might have shot out.  That would not have helped if, say, the wooden cupboard that holds my hotplate were to have burst into flames.  That would have been the time to remember about the fire extinguisher.  Happily, I did not have to kick myself in retrospect as I watched the building burning down–heaven forbid–saying to myself, why in the holy hell did you not remember the THREE fire extinguishers–one, two, THREE–you have lying around in the place, each one strategically positioned in places where there are fire hazards?

Well, so be it.  I was saved from disaster only by the fact that the plastic used on the kettle had a higher flashpoint than the heat of my hotplate.  After everything cooled down, I inspected the bottom of my kettle, and passed a few happy moments inspecting its innards.  You would not believe how simple these things are.  Really, I think if I did a bit of re-engineering, I could revive this kettle and have it boiling away quite cheerfully again.  But I think I won’t.  I have other things to tinker with, and the kettle would end up in the pile of  “things to fix when I get a chance,” and I never get a chance, because I am thinking of other things.

You will be pleased to know that my hotplate emerged slightly smelling of plastic but otherwise unscathed.  I wiped the remains of the plastic off and turned the hotplate back on “high” to burn off any renegade plastic molecules.  It did smoke a bit, and then subsided.  So at least I don’t have to go out and buy another of THOSE.

Once the building was cleared of plastic fumes, I followed up with billowing clouds of frankincense and myrrh, so that my clothing and bed hangings will smell of incense rather than burning plastic.  I have a collection of precious incense resins, most of which I procured in the Middle East, some of which I collected myself in various resin-producing forest places, and some that I’ve obtained through trading with other resin aficionados.

It’s a bit more of a chore to fire up a few resin nuggets than it is to light a stick of incense, which might be a factor in the development of incense sticks.  You have to have the proper equipment, etc., which I will not go into, except to say that the process involves special charcoal (I have done it with “normal” charcoal but that is a pain), a butane torch, time, and nuggets of whatever resin you are burning.

I totally filled the building with frankincense and myrrh smoke, causing the dog to seek refuge under the table, and me to stand outside on the deck until the incense smoke had risen into the rafters;  then I came in and sat down to write this.  Afterwards, I will go out to the nearest source of small appliances and procure another electric kettle.  That is how I cook anything that requires hot water, since the hot plate doesn’t get hot enough.

Perhaps that’s a good thing, after all.

Stephen Fry on God | The Meaning Of Life | RTÉ One: http://youtu.be/-suvkwNYSQo

What do you think?

Mushroom, tomatoes, and Polish bread, with butter: yum!

Some February fiction for you

“Things on Toast”

If only I were more up-market, I might expect to stumble across my well-manicured, not-a-hair-out-of-place, nearly mother-in-law from time to time. This is a small town, after all.

But I keep myself to myself. When I do go out, it’s to where you’d expect to find someone who dresses in second-hand jeans, shabby hoodies, and under-polished shoes.

The mid-week flea market, and the Sunday car boot. Charity shops. The sort of cafés which don’t have booze, let alone cocktails, but do have tea in plain, clean mugs, and menus that list “things on toast”.

You’d be amazed at the number of things you can get on toast.

Edible things, that is. I’m talking cafés, not art galleries. Just in case you’re imagining two slices of plain white, buttered, with a string of pearls, or maybe a cut-throat razor, or a VW Beetle, on top.

We don’t do airs or graces at places which feature things on toast. There are few children, but a lot of babbies. Sometimes, babbies who are with their mums because they’re poorly – the babbies, that is, though the mums don’t always look so great, either. Some of them are pale beneath their orange tans, or glossy make up. The one in the booth across from me, for example, she’s wearing more mascara in one go than I’ve worn in all my 26 years.

Babby has an ear infection. His mum wonders if that’s why he’s been crying a lot. Maybe his ears hurt, she says to her mates.

I like the way they leave me alone here. I’m not a regular, preferring to spread my trade amongst the local cafés, trading privacy for better service. I just get my cuppa and my piece of apple pie, and custard. I can look at the magazines in peace.

They have the most incongruous magazines here. I’d expect to find “Bella”, “Chat”, “Take a Break”. The usual mix of weight loss stories, funny pictures of puppies, knitting patterns, recipes, and personal triumphs and disasters.

Instead, they have well-flipped-through copies of “Elle”, and something I’ve never seen before called “Decorative!” Complete with flippin’ exclamation point, no less.

“Decorative!” consists mainly of glossy adverts for Rolex, and Gucci, and lots of other brands I’ve never heard of before, not being up-market like the ex, or his ever so tastefully-enhanced mother.

Oh, and there are a few articles, too, tucked here and there like the adverts in lesser mags.

I’ve never seen the point of chasing brands. It always seems to be a case of a coat or a watch or a phone too far. You get the latest fill-in-the-blank, must-have item, then you barely have time to wash it or lose it, let alone show it off, when Must-Have Mark II comes out. And so it goes, the Magic Roundabout of Keeping up with the Material Girls, and Lads.

Not me. The only time I’ve come close was just as obsessive, but it wasn’t label driven. It was something older, more primal, and so-so-so much fun.

Til I ran out of happy steam, and the local shopkeepers ran out of patience.

Til the bills landed.

Then it was just like dominoes, a game I’ve never liked. Except it wasn’t as much fun as dominoes.

My posh almost-mum-in-law: does she buy “Decorative!”? Perhaps she has a special servant who’s paid just to turn the pages, whilst Specialist Servant II fans her with grapes, and SS III feeds her ostriches.

It’s just possible I got that wrong.

I’ve only met her once before. That first time was when Pete – that’s my ex – misjudged his parents’ holiday to the Rich People Islands, and they returned in time to find me collecting my Primark bra and knickers from the floor of his dad’s so-called study.

I hadn’t got round to my hoodie and jeans, yet.

The second time was a moment ago, when I went into the ladies to wash the custard off my face, and found her with one of the staff. At least, I think the other woman was staff. She had a pinny on. Ex’s mum’s Chanel suit and Gucci bag were on the floor of the loo.

So was she.

I wonder what her favourite “thing on toast” is?

Must pop back, and ask her.

Teabot!

If you enjoyed this story, check out my collection “What! No Pudding?“ available from Amazon.