Farewell, old friend

I didn’t want to see our old cooker being taken away. I get quite sentimental at times like that and tend to believe that inanimate objects have some sort of souls, whereas I have met human beings where it would be hard to make a case for them having any kind of soul at all. Our new cooker had been delivered and dumped, all white and shiny and wrapped in plastic and polystyrene, in the middle of the kitchen – and suddenly the kids shouted for me to come, to come at once and, not thinking, I did. So I saw our dear old cooker being wheeled unceremoniously away on a trolley and thrown, without much care, into the back of a van and driven off. And yes, I shed a tear and was mocked for it.

I have spent so much time with that old cooker. I have mopped it and polished it and cursed the stubborn spills; I have cooked all sorts of meals on it, from everyday suppers to celebration dinners, and baked all the birthday cakes for eighteen years. Half-witted with tiredness I have stood gormlessly and watched the kettle boil on it; I have leant against its comforting warmth on cold days and nights. It has been loyal always - I have burned toast, boiled milk over, and turned out a few entirely inedible productions, and always blamed the cooker, and it stood silently and never argued its innocence. And at the end of its life we just threw it away.

I daresay I shall get used to the new cooker, the nasty thing. But it is going to take a while.