Everday Idiocy.
An astonishing thing about living (mostly) alone is that you slowly begin to realize just how phenomenally stupid you actually are. You know. What with there not being anyone else around to blame and that.
Today.
It is three o’clock in the afternoon, the sky is blue and the sun is shining. For the first time in five months after the coldest, bitterest, most unforgiving dark winter ever in the world I am sitting outside, looking at greenery whilst the sun shines on my face and warms my bones whilst I sip a pleasant drink.
I feel relaxed for the first time in forever. The beer garden – a fifteen minute walk away from my house (long enough to qualify as ‘a walk’, not too long to be ‘a chore’) contains a couple of young girls (three, maybe four) who make a big thing of smiling at me and then being ‘shy’ whenever I glance at them which amuses their respective mothers no end and who then smile at me benignly.
I finish my drink and return home to the dinner I had left on a low heat in the oven. The house is spotless after my ‘it’s spring!’ efforts and smells mildly and not unpleasantly of Zorflora and home-cooking. I turn the oven off. My washing and ironing is done and I have attended to my ‘personal grooming’. I feel o.k.
One hour previously.
This is shit, I think to myself. I’ve done all my fucking chores, figured-out how to copy rental dvds from the garage, the place is spotless and I just want to get out in the fucking sun ‘cos I feel like Johnny Cash in Folsom Prison. I just want to feel the sun on my face and I’m tied to this fucking cooker.
I glare with resentment at my captor. The casserole will take at least another hour. Blonde Colleague better fucking appreciate it for her lunch tomorrow after all the fuss she made last time she tasted it.
An hour. Christ. It’s not worth chancing it with a gas cooker though. There could be a supply surge, the gas could blow out and if the central heating kicks in or I unwittingly flick a light switch or light a cigarette when I get back in I'm done for.
Outside birds are singing, for what seems like the first time since last year. I can hear children playing in the distance. I want to go out.
I check the progress of my dinner, and am greeted by the reassuring hum of the fan when I open the door of the oven. All is well.
They’re brilliant, fan ovens, I think to myself. Even temperature, so much quicker.
I think a bit more.
A fan oven? Which wouldn’t work too well with a gas flame. An oven that, thinking about it, I’ve never had to light.
The hob is gas. The oven has ALWAYS been electric.
I start pulling my coat on. At this point, I would round on someone – anyone- and say-
“Why didn’t you tell me it was an electric oven? We could have gone out AN HOUR AGO! It’s perfectly safe! IDIOT!”
But there’s only me.
Today.
It is three o’clock in the afternoon, the sky is blue and the sun is shining. For the first time in five months after the coldest, bitterest, most unforgiving dark winter ever in the world I am sitting outside, looking at greenery whilst the sun shines on my face and warms my bones whilst I sip a pleasant drink.
I feel relaxed for the first time in forever. The beer garden – a fifteen minute walk away from my house (long enough to qualify as ‘a walk’, not too long to be ‘a chore’) contains a couple of young girls (three, maybe four) who make a big thing of smiling at me and then being ‘shy’ whenever I glance at them which amuses their respective mothers no end and who then smile at me benignly.
I finish my drink and return home to the dinner I had left on a low heat in the oven. The house is spotless after my ‘it’s spring!’ efforts and smells mildly and not unpleasantly of Zorflora and home-cooking. I turn the oven off. My washing and ironing is done and I have attended to my ‘personal grooming’. I feel o.k.
One hour previously.
This is shit, I think to myself. I’ve done all my fucking chores, figured-out how to copy rental dvds from the garage, the place is spotless and I just want to get out in the fucking sun ‘cos I feel like Johnny Cash in Folsom Prison. I just want to feel the sun on my face and I’m tied to this fucking cooker.
I glare with resentment at my captor. The casserole will take at least another hour. Blonde Colleague better fucking appreciate it for her lunch tomorrow after all the fuss she made last time she tasted it.
An hour. Christ. It’s not worth chancing it with a gas cooker though. There could be a supply surge, the gas could blow out and if the central heating kicks in or I unwittingly flick a light switch or light a cigarette when I get back in I'm done for.
Outside birds are singing, for what seems like the first time since last year. I can hear children playing in the distance. I want to go out.
I check the progress of my dinner, and am greeted by the reassuring hum of the fan when I open the door of the oven. All is well.
They’re brilliant, fan ovens, I think to myself. Even temperature, so much quicker.
I think a bit more.
A fan oven? Which wouldn’t work too well with a gas flame. An oven that, thinking about it, I’ve never had to light.
The hob is gas. The oven has ALWAYS been electric.
I start pulling my coat on. At this point, I would round on someone – anyone- and say-
“Why didn’t you tell me it was an electric oven? We could have gone out AN HOUR AGO! It’s perfectly safe! IDIOT!”
But there’s only me.
posted by Tired Dad at
9:00 pm
13 Comments:
You know, I'd never realised that myself. Until now. Of course. Why do they make them like that? AND there's an electric grill......Tricksy bastards.
No no no.... you're looking at it wrong.
Living by yourself means that you're ALWAYS right. There's never anyone else pointing out mistakes/how things should be done. Enjoy it.
Even if it had been a gas oven - you're a bit of a worrier, aren't you? I mean, not going out and leaving a lighted hob is one thing. But thinking the oven might blow you up if you don't watch it constantly - look, darling, you don't have enough to occupy your mind.
Oh, and personal grooming in inverted commas is a bit disturbing. I hate to say it, but I had a mental image of a chap combing his pubes. Sorry, had to be said.
I wish I hadn't said it, all the same.
Oh, I'm glad Z said that and not me. Not that I thought it or anything.
And for all your tremendous stupidity it sounds like you had a lovely day.
Damn kid, buy a slow cooker and let it cook all day. Of course if you are in a real hurry, you can buy an electric pressure cooker. They are ace and force the flavour into the food, too. And while you're at it, invest in a revo marinator, it takes 20 minutes to do what takes at least 8 hours in the frige.
you, tired baby, are lost as an Easter egg, but you will learn and survive and become quite self-confident as time goes on.
xx
the worlds oldest yenta
Absent partners accumulate all sorts of virtues you never appreciated before. In my experience, blaming possibilities and splinter removal feature large among them.
Hello bongo and welcome. And I've no idea. Are they not more energy efficient or something?
Frog: Yes. I suppose.
Z: Yes, you may be right about the 'occupying my mind' thing. And fear not. The 'grooming' refers to the trimming of finger- and toe-nails and the trimming of any hair from the chin upwards - sadly this now includes my ears and eyebrows.
Downstairs remains a monthly task - it's not due till next week.
Em: It was quite nice in a sort of ho-hum way.
Punx: I have long been tempted by the slow-cooker thing. So perhaps. And although you may be right about the 'lost' thing, self-confidence has never really been a great problem but thanks.
PB: As I've never done an honest day's work in my life I've had no need of splinter removal. But I know what you mean.
You invert owt you want old bean.
I had several great..no really..great ideas for a slogan but I've forgotten what they were now.
Careful old bean.
Much more of this and you could start to develop 'bachelor habits'.
This, on the whole, would be a 'bad thing'
I can only advise you from afar.
This, on the whole, is a good thing.
Oh my, you're not the only one who did something like that. I spent ages trying to find out how to light my (now ex) boyfriends oven because the hob was gas and the one at home had always been gas.
He looked at me like a moron before just turning the dial, very slowly, and walking away. -facedesk-
Sarah
Oh you can shout at yourself..I do that all the time. I hate my electric oven as it has a tendency to burn things..nothing to do with my leaving it unattended or anything. I took me ages to figure out why there was no hissing gas noise either.
Dinners: As ever.
Move: Hello and welcome. He sounds like a knob. It's the sort of thing I would do.
PM: I can't possibly shout at myself - I'd have no energy left to shout at the television for the ten minutes each week I turn it on.
what a tired dad..
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