What You Got Cooking?

          The delivery men brought our new cooker on Sunday morning. Once again, there was that sense of High Noon: would they be idiots? Would they take all day? Would they arrive at the crack of dawn? They said they would arrive between 9.30 and 1.00, so potentially we could spend the whole morning waiting. One of us would have to wait indoors until they arrived.

          We’d been to the theatre the night before, and got home at midnight, so when my alarm went off at five o’clock in the morning, I could not drag myself out of bed. Nor could I at six or seven. It wasn’t only tiredness but the feeling of dread. I had to keep telling myself that it would be alright. Chances are, they’ll be quick and professional, and afterwards we’ll have a brand new cooker, the first one we’ve ever bought together in twenty years of marriage.

          We said farewell to the old cooker, which was rusty, grease-stained, with a defunct grill and loose lock on the oven door. We’d inherited it when we bought the flat, in 1994, and I’m not sure how long it had been there before us. Its particular model is no longer manufactured, and it was apparently thinner than all current models, which is why we had to have the alcove enlarged. We still didn’t know whether the new cooker would fit.

          There were two engineers, both dressed in Knowhow t-shirts and what looked like black combat trousers. One was cheery, the other- who was in charge- more serious. They attended to the new cooker with spirit level, electric screwdriver and electricity detector.

          I don’t know why I feel such dread about these things. I couldn’t honestly say I’ve got any real horror stories about workmen. But each time we need work done inside the flat, my nerves are on red alert.

          After the engineers had fitted the cooker, they told us that we needed to replace the carpet on which it now stood with kitchen tiles, because carpet is a fire hazard. My heart sank. Had it been a fire hazard when the old cooker stood there? It would mean more workmen, more disruption. Also, because the old cooker had a control panel above the hobs and the new one doesn’t, the back wall was now exposed, and we would have to get the power cable covered with something called metal trunking. The new cooker apparently blows hot air out the back, which the old one didn’t, and tcheaphis might melt the cable, another fire hazard.

          They left, and we congratulated ourselves on our brand new cooker. But then we began worrying about the safety aspects. So we walked down to Homebase and bought some cheap floor tiles, with the idea of putting them loose across the carpet- that should give you some idea of my diy skills. Eventually, we would hire a professional carpet fitter to remove the carpet and put new flooring down properly.

          I had Monday free. I pulled the cooker out to try and place the tiles down. For some reason, it came forward a few inches, then the front end lifted itself up in the air. There was some obstacle. I eased the cooker back, then tilted it towards me to try to free it. I looked at the back. The engineers had fixed it to the wall with a metal chain on a clip, which I hadn’t realized they’d done. I unclipped the chain and then I heard something snap.

          It was the front leg. A simple plastic thing, an inch long with a screw fixing. It had snapped under the weight of the cooker as I had tilted it. I felt cold sick. My wife was going to give out to me. We’d only had the cooker for 24 hours and I’d broken it.

                                                *

          I’ve barely written anything since my last post. Only morning pages, on those days when I could get up in time. Rarely did I fill the six sides of A5. I think it’s best to write morning pages all in one go, rather than fits and starts. I didn’t read much, either. And in all the leave I’ve had lately, I’ve hardly seen anything of my own choosing. Consequently, I had no inspiration.

          Then on Sunday, before the women’s programmes took up the airwaves (Poldark and Mr Selfridge), I persuaded my wife to let me put a dvd on. I chose The Godfather, the first one, with Marlon Brando in it. I’d forgotten how good it was. And watching it, getting involved with a fictional story, seemed to rejuvenate me.

          I also began listening to stuff on Radio 4. I began a Radio Drama diary, as advised by Claire Grove and Stephen Wyatt in their book So You Want To Write Radio Drama? Somehow, the very act of writing seemed to loosen me up. I began a new writing practice notebook, too.

          I had to admit it, but going back to work seemed to help, too. It wasn’t as mad as it usually is, I actually got to chat to workmates. In a more relaxed frame of mind, I began thinking about a couple of story ideas I’d had kicking around. And while I can’t say that I’m out of the woods just yet, I do feel as though I can see a clearing.