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.
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