The Anarchist’s Gravy Train


Here’s the story of cheese, loneliness, and explosions.

It was as I was pouring my sixth cup of freshly made gravy down the drain when I realised I was a bit crap at making gravy. I just can’t bring myself to ingest watery gravy. Who likes watery gravy? The instructions clearly state that one must pour a ridiculous amount of water into a cup and then put in only a few granules. I think the fellow who put those instructions together must’ve been a human corpse puppet operated by a family of blindfolded mice. I like my gravy thick. So thick the fork can stand up in it unaided. Seven attempts to get it right. And on that seventh attempt, tears of joy started welling up in the corners of my eyes. I was victorious! You may think there are bigger concerns in the world, but if you do, I think you’re underestimating the scale of my achievement…

The mash didn’t go well, either. Oh, I got the mixture right, but I accidentally spilt a load on the floor and I had to start again. Why are you laughing? This was my dinner. I was hungry. Not funny. I had to clean up the mash mess. The pan and brush didn’t work. I ended up mushing it into the Lino. I then tried the vacuum cleaner. That didn’t work either. Almost as if they didn’t do a mash test when they were designing it. How the heck do you pick up mash off a floor? I left it in the end. That’s my motto in life. If you can’t solve a problem, leave it, it’ll fix itself.

Anyway, I had bigger concerns. My baked beans had exploded. Dad had made some before him and mother went away, and he put them in a container in the fridge. He left a sweet note on the fridge door reminding me to warm them up. ‘Oh, okay,’ I thought. ‘I’ll just bung them in the microwave.’ And they exploded! I think I should’ve taken the lid off. That might be where I went wrong.

At least my five pork chops came out okay. What? Yes, I said ‘five’. Hey, I was hungry. Half my mash was on the bloody floor and most of my beans were in pieces, for Christ’s sake…

I also didn’t have much luck with my pizza dip, later on. I don’t know how you warm it up. I didn’t want to put it in the microwave because the last time I did that it exploded. So this time, I tried putting it in the oven for 10 minutes, but it was still frozen after 10 minutes. I was baffled. What do you do when the laws of science don’t apply in your kitchen? And I’m not being silly with that last remark. I poured boiling water on it too and it was still frozen.

And don’t even get me started on my cheese nightmare. I opened the fridge door one day this week and the tub of sprinkle cheese came flying out, like cheesy confetti over a cheese lover’s crazy cheese wedding. It was a powdered cheese. Very fine. The lid had stuck on something but I didn’t notice and when the door opened, it came flying out. I was trying to get some milk for a cup of tea to have with a ready meal microwave breakfast that I was having for dinner. It was delicious…

This may sound crazy, but I don’t see why we should pay attention to what packaging tells us. When you live in a house with people, there are rules and order. When you live by yourself, all anarchy breaks loose. You can do what the flip you want! All day breakfast for dinner? Why not! Don’t shut the bathroom door when going for a pee? Why not! Not getting out of bed until two in the afternoon? Why not! And then spend the entire day in one’s pyjamas. What a great life.

Although I will concede one small problem with this lifestyle – the kitchen is starting to smell a tad funky. The problem is, I’m incredibly lazy. There are dirty dishes everywhere. Everywhere but in the dishwasher. It’s got to the point now where I’m running out of space to cook dinner. I wake up every morning thinking, ‘Today I will sort the kitchen out.’ And then I go in the kitchen. “Oh, bloody Nora, look at how much there is to sort out! I’ll leave it until tomorrow…”

I tell you what else is a problem – I can’t figure out the dishwasher tablets. Whilst mother and father are away, I’m all alone. I don’t have a job, so I have no one to talk to all day. Except myself. And I don’t have any friends and I don’t see my brother very often. So I have no one to ask for help with all the problems I’m running in to. And yes, I could Google it, but I couldn’t figure out what to ask Google in regards to my dishwasher tablet problem.

They came in a big plastic bag, but mother put the tablets in a plastic tub and threw the original packaging away. And each of the tablets is wrapped in plastic, but the plastic is skintight. It takes an age to remove it, and once you do, the tablet falls apart. Eventually, I managed to open one without it falling apart, and I put it in the dishwasher. But nothing got clean. So the next time, I put one in with the plastic packaging. But nothing got clean. My parents left me with no instructions. I’m baffled. How the hell do you use the dishwasher?

And don’t tell me to alter the dishwasher settings. It would be easier to pilot Apollo 11. All the labels have worn off. I have to use the standard setting. I think it’s on the Eco setting. Which proves that although environmentalists have an admirable dream, they know nothing about cleaning dishes.

Lord knows what’s gonna happen when I need to use the washing machine. Meh. I’ll just put it on 40 and wool and hope for the best…

I have enjoyed some of this living alone malarkey and I will miss it when the folks get back. Things like bacon sandwiches. We always have them after church on Sunday, a tradition I keep up even when I’m by myself. But usually, the sandwiches only have two pieces of bacon in them because there are three of us. With only one, I get to have six pieces of bacon in-between two pieces of bread. Now that’s what I call a bacon sandwich. Hey, I even had a triple bacon cheeseburger the other day. And nobody is here to tell me it’s stupid! Yippee!

I’ve always thought that one must grow up when one is living alone. Like, it would happen naturally. Well, if you’re reading this and you’re young, trust me, you’ll never grow up. Life is too short to grow up. Why bother? It only makes you miserable…

All that said, I do miss the little things. I am a very solitary person, but I miss my folks saying good morning and goodnight. I miss my funny neighbour gossip conversations with mother. Or the nights we peer out of the window through the curtains trying to figure out what’s going on. I mean, oh drat, I mean – no – erm, we don’t do that. Ahem.

Well, look, we did it once

Do you know how lonely I’ve been? We’ve had two phone calls from two banks and I kept them talking just to hear another voice.

“Hello there, sir. I’m from the bank.”

“Hello. How are you doing?”

“Erm, fine. So, we have 10 offers. Are you interested?”

“Erm, sure.”

“Okay. I’m going to tell you about these offers and then we’ll arrange a date for you to come down to the bank to have a chat about which one you’re interested in. It will take some time, so you have to be sure you’re coming to have a chat with us.”

“Oh, yes. Certainly.”

20 minutes he waffled on about some financial crap.

“So, when can I book an appointment for you, sir?”

“Oh, sorry, I’m not interested,” and I hung up.

What? He’s getting paid to do that. Don’t feel sorry for him…

We got another call as well off another bank. I could only keep him talking for a couple minutes, though. I was desperately trying to think of ways to keep the conversation going.

“So, what are you wearing?”

He’d hung up before I’d asked that question. Probably for the best…

I sound like an old person, don’t I? All alone. Waiting for the mail each morning before settling down to watch seven hours of antiques and property programmes. At least I haven’t gotten so lonely that I’ve started ringing the speaking clock. Yet.

But doing so wouldn’t be as crazy as it sounds. Sara Mendes da Costa is the current speaking clock lady and she is rather dashing. Of course, if one becomes infatuated with the speaking clock lady, one might end up in some kind of asylum.

“You see! You see! We never talk about our feelings! It’s always about the bloody clocks with you!”

Imagine meeting Sara in a bar.

“I recognise that voice!”

“Really? Do you know what, you’re the first person to say that! Like, ever!”

She’s the fourth incarnation of the speaking clock, too. It’s like Doctor Who…

One week. That’s all I have left before the folks come back. Surely I can manage one more week alone. Without accidentally burning the house down. I’m doing well so far, which makes a pleasant change from the usual fare when I’m alone. No fires for a week!

It’s a new personal best…

Anarchist, Emma Goldman (1869-1940), once said: “If I can’t dance to it, it’s not my revolution.”

Peace Out :|:

I’d love to hear your thoughts on this post. You can leave a comment and/or like this post below, or by clicking the title on the top of this post if you are on the ‘Archives’ page. Likes and follows greatly appreciated. Thanks.

Please feel free check out the latest posts from my other two blogs:

To Contrive & Jive
New Posts Every Sunday, Tuesday and Thursday
Click Here to Read the Latest Post

Hark Around the Words
New Posts Every Sunday, Tuesday and Thursday
Click Here to Read the Latest Post


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