Edition 85: "Toy Story"

Negative Soundbyters - a less oppressive evening to you all - heat-wise that is. I am sitting at our kitchen island using Mrs H’s laptop (if you remember my laptop has not been the same, since mouthwash leaked over critical circuitry causing major malfunctions), while eating a chocolate flake and drinking a short glass of wine. (Not simultaneously I might add!) The only sound punctuating the silence is the clock above the hob. Rafey is out for the count and Mrs H is out as well - not for the count, just down at the local. The house is still and I am able to hear my own thoughts which we London dwellers don't often get the space or time to do. Don’t get me wrong - me locking into that inner voice for too long might have me reaching for the wine bottle - but a moment for reflection to coincide with a few creative words - what could possibly go wrong?

Well….

Mrs H’s impending departure to the pub meant I had to fend for myself in the kitchen. It’s not something I shy away from but with a cooking ace under our roof, my culinary skills are not often put to the test. Anyway I started rummaging around in the fridge and so began visualising my meal - bacon, onion and tomato pasta (plus a crushed garlic glove for good measure). I wasn't expecting a michelin star, just a full tummy. I do some prep, get the bacon onto the grill, start chopping the onion, pan is on the gas - and then the chef arrives in her pub finery. Gulp. “That’s too much onion. Why is the bacon on the grill? You should use some chorizo. Get the honey. Add some pesto.” My simple meal plan was quickly turning into fine dining. That saying about “too many cooks”; well that only applies to me so I relinquished the kitchen knife and vacated my spot at the cutting board. Mrs H took the wheel, so-to-speak.

Soon Mrs H’s revised recipe was bubbling away. Unusually there was an awful lot of smoke. We both looked at each other, peered down at the sauce, and couldn't fathom why that should be - until we saw flames licking out from the grill where the fat from the bacon had caught fire - because we had forgotten to turn it off! I had visions of those flames finding the gas pipe, obliterating our new extension, and Mrs H and I landing up on our neighbours roof. Mrs H’s ever more practical concern was to put the flames out. “Get the fire blanket! Get the fire blanket!” Like a cat clearing a hot tin roof, I flew into the utility, retrieved said blanket - but then couldn't work out how to take it from it’s cover. “I can’t get it out! I can’t get it out!” I cried. Mrs H whose tone had elevated a smidgen, shouted “Pull the tags! Pull the tags!” (Note how we were both saying things twice!). Naturally that was the correct call. I leapt back into the kitchen to confront our grill-sized inferno. “Throw it over the flames! Throw it over the flames!” instructed Mrs H from a safe distance, pint of water at the ready. Thankfully the blanket was man-sized and easily smothered those fatty flames. We both breathed an audible sigh of relief.

Thereafter Mrs H beat a “scorched” retreat to the pub and I was left to my own devices meal-wise which thankfully did not the need to flambé anything!

And now to this week’s anecdote…

Hoddy X

Toys

As you know last week it was Rafey’s first birthday. It’s fair to say that he scored from a present perspective although I am not sure what he made of it all. When confronted with a myriad of different parcels of various shapes-and-sizes wrapped in a kaleidoscope of colour, he was almost tentative. I think my son is cautious in “new” situations. For instance he always stops at the top of a stair, judges the distance to the ground “below” and if he feels uncomfortable, doesn’t move or looks around for assistance. I compare this to some of his compadres in the NCT class who zoot around with very little regard for their own safety – flinging themselves off staircases is just par for the course!

Luckily Rafe had his cousin Joshua (well versed in the art of present opening) as Chief-Assistant-Present-Opener in attendance and soon Rafey had disappeared under a mound of wrapping paper, surrounded by a variety of toys, books, clothes, puzzles and birthday cards (which Mrs H read to him). Hamleys had been transported to our front living room!

I am still trying to wrap my head around some of the toys. For instance there is this train that comes with three plastic balls. I switched it on (these days every toy activated starts speaking in that annoying, high pitched electric voice) and after about 10 minutes I gave up, stumped as to how the balls fitted into the design. I spotted Joshua playing with it a bit later; with the toy in more experienced hands it performed as the manufacturer intended! Rafey’s approach is still barbarian-like; picking the toy up and thumping it to the ground followed by an electric squeal and a wide toothy grin!

Talking of those voices I had to bury one of his toys in the sofa the other day because I couldn’t work out how to turn off the tinny, whiney voice that was making my brain sore and at times I come down in the morning to make breakfast before heading out to the swamp and all I can hear from the toy bin is muffled cries of “Press me, I am A for Apple” as one toy has been squashed up against another. Our house is now a cacophony of programmed voices inviting me to learn the alphabet or count to ten!

If you are an environmentalist with a fervent desire to rid the world of plastic, then do not accept an invitation to a tot’s birthday. In this regard Mrs H and I will try and temper Rafe’s natural instinct to test the durability of these toys, because if they can be passed on to future generations (easy now!!) then that’s one less toy caught on a pristine ocean reef….

One present that I did spot in Santa’s satellite workshop was a bottle of champagne – easy for me to operate and 100% recyclable!

OUT :)

Pic of the Week

Dude that's mine.