Lying in the sun on my new padded lounger, sipping Rioja while listening to ‘Satyagraha’ on my ipod. A picture of self indulgent happiness. Well, for me anyway.
This indolent wallowing in sensory excess was a just reward for the horror of the morning.
The flat has reached that level of scruffy unkemptness which activated all of Toni’s tidying impulses – which I ignore at my peril.
Toni wealds a mop like an ancient weapon of war. Like a knight of old going to battle with his trusty lance, he harries the dirt from the floor with an expression of personal vindictiveness illuminating his face as his sacred Crusade continues.
I usually banish myself to the kitchen and make desultory cleaning gestures of varying levels of ineffectuality because I know that I will meet my Waterloo in one particular area of kitchen cleansing.
I let few things annoy me. Apart, that is, from people with tiny dogs; boys who wear baseball caps backwards; sunglasses frames on ordinary glasses; motorists who don’t indicate; people who eat crisps in public; rap music; the ‘royal’ family; stupid beards; Spanish television; The Bishop of Rome; clouds; Andy Warhol; drizzle; the novels of William Faulkner, and things like that.
But some things do annoy me. Computer programs that always let you down. Always. And the one thing in the kitchen which is impossible to clean.
I fail to understand why the Advertising Standards Agency or something allows the manufactures of electric hobs to claim that they are easy to clean.
Ever since I was hoodwinked years ago into buying a sleek looking electric hob I have been virulently against them. I eventually replaced the electronic disaster with gas. I have yet to find anyone who actually, seriously, prefers electricity to gas with which to cook.
The radiant rings look nice the first time you use them and then the failing battle to keep them pristine. Almost immediately they look shabby soon developing a misty ring of grubbiness which remains, spoiling the reflective gleam that sold the bloody thing to you in the first place.
I used every single proprietary liquid, foam, cream and spray on the market and nothing worked.
It was, therefore, with something approaching despair that I realized that the flat had a shining, new electric hob.
The cleaning equivalent of the Via Dolorosa started almost at once. Pristine to pissed off in one simple cooking experience.
Today was the day that, to match the manic cleansing of Toni, I decided to clean the hob.
I used a foam which advised leaving the activated liquid on the surface for ‘some seconds’, which I did and then used a scourer to make an impression on the cloudy accretions. It is a cruel fact that, when wet, the surface gives the impression of being clean. It is only when you wipe off the detergent and dry the hob that all your old filthy friends show themselves to be far more resilient to the cleansing liquid than your decomposing flesh!
Three bloody times I treated the surface, with increasing ferocity. An exploratory scratch with a nail resulted in the destruction of the nail and the triumphant success of the resilient residue.
I am ashamed to admit that I rather lost it after that and decided to chisel the rest off. Luckily I restrained myself in my fury and the only steel that was used to attack the hob was a small paring knife. After the grisly work of the knife, another application of the corrosive liquid.
And it’s as clean as it is ever going to get.
God rot electric hobs to a hotter hell than any that they have visited upon hapless users on earth.
This indolent wallowing in sensory excess was a just reward for the horror of the morning.
The flat has reached that level of scruffy unkemptness which activated all of Toni’s tidying impulses – which I ignore at my peril.
Toni wealds a mop like an ancient weapon of war. Like a knight of old going to battle with his trusty lance, he harries the dirt from the floor with an expression of personal vindictiveness illuminating his face as his sacred Crusade continues.
I usually banish myself to the kitchen and make desultory cleaning gestures of varying levels of ineffectuality because I know that I will meet my Waterloo in one particular area of kitchen cleansing.
I let few things annoy me. Apart, that is, from people with tiny dogs; boys who wear baseball caps backwards; sunglasses frames on ordinary glasses; motorists who don’t indicate; people who eat crisps in public; rap music; the ‘royal’ family; stupid beards; Spanish television; The Bishop of Rome; clouds; Andy Warhol; drizzle; the novels of William Faulkner, and things like that.
But some things do annoy me. Computer programs that always let you down. Always. And the one thing in the kitchen which is impossible to clean.
I fail to understand why the Advertising Standards Agency or something allows the manufactures of electric hobs to claim that they are easy to clean.
Ever since I was hoodwinked years ago into buying a sleek looking electric hob I have been virulently against them. I eventually replaced the electronic disaster with gas. I have yet to find anyone who actually, seriously, prefers electricity to gas with which to cook.
The radiant rings look nice the first time you use them and then the failing battle to keep them pristine. Almost immediately they look shabby soon developing a misty ring of grubbiness which remains, spoiling the reflective gleam that sold the bloody thing to you in the first place.
I used every single proprietary liquid, foam, cream and spray on the market and nothing worked.
It was, therefore, with something approaching despair that I realized that the flat had a shining, new electric hob.
The cleaning equivalent of the Via Dolorosa started almost at once. Pristine to pissed off in one simple cooking experience.
Today was the day that, to match the manic cleansing of Toni, I decided to clean the hob.
I used a foam which advised leaving the activated liquid on the surface for ‘some seconds’, which I did and then used a scourer to make an impression on the cloudy accretions. It is a cruel fact that, when wet, the surface gives the impression of being clean. It is only when you wipe off the detergent and dry the hob that all your old filthy friends show themselves to be far more resilient to the cleansing liquid than your decomposing flesh!
Three bloody times I treated the surface, with increasing ferocity. An exploratory scratch with a nail resulted in the destruction of the nail and the triumphant success of the resilient residue.
I am ashamed to admit that I rather lost it after that and decided to chisel the rest off. Luckily I restrained myself in my fury and the only steel that was used to attack the hob was a small paring knife. After the grisly work of the knife, another application of the corrosive liquid.
And it’s as clean as it is ever going to get.
God rot electric hobs to a hotter hell than any that they have visited upon hapless users on earth.
No comments:
Post a Comment