When the fridge took a holiday


We went away for two weeks. Giddy with the excitement of seeing blue skies, we checked the house three times, each person doing a separate lap to re-adjust the half-drawn curtains, rattle window handles or tighten the taps so that not a single drop of water would escape.

On the way back, the air stewardess announced that the UK was indeed cold and dreary. We would need to switch the heating on full when we got home, the house would be cold. We needed our coats. They were in the car, half an hour away from the airport. It was okay – we could handle a bit of rain.

We decided who would be on heating duty, unloading duty, unpacking duty and tea duty (tea duty is the most sacred of all duties after two weeks away, a lot of pressure rests on the tea-maker’s shoulders). One member of our party (who shall remain anonymous) absent mindedly said they would need to flick the electricity on before we could make tea.

The realisation dawned on us as we chewed on our plane grapes and wrestled our plane bread. The aforementioned member of our party (who shall remain anonymous) looked at us in silent horror. They clapped their palm on their forehead with the kind of might that could have sent a plane seat into permanent recline.

The fridge had been off for two weeks.

Someone would be subbed from tea duty to mopping duty.

We would have to wait until we could have tea.

We were helplessly trapped on a plane for a few more hours and could do absolutely nothing to save our fridge from the spicy neopolitan puddle speckled with deflated profiteroles that was forming around it.

We arrived home around 5 hours later and rushed to the fridge to find Ben and Jerry perched on the top shelf of the freezer, in a mezzanine state somewhere between solid and liquid.

Not bad for two weeks off.



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