On my way home from work I bought 'The Best of Cooking' a recipe book first published in 1977. And I can't wait to flick through its glossy pages. I'm so excited.
Talking of excitement, my employer who shall be called Henry from now on, was in bed when I arrived. And no amount of clashing pots, banging back doors or screaming starlings managed to stir him.
I thought he was dead.
So after binning two sprouting potatoes, cleaning the kitchen window and plating up two salads I made him a pot of tea and went up.
Knock knock.
No answer.
Knock again.
Nothing.
So down I came with the brew and poured it down the sink. And as the brown liquid flowed I thought
What'll I do if he's had a fall in his en suite and is lying naked by the toilet brush? I'd need to get an ambulance, but first I'd need to check his vital signs and that could prove difficult because he's a big lad and I might not be able to find his pulse. That would mean going down on to his chest to listen out for a heart beat.
Oh God don't be dead Henry. I need the money.
To take my mind of Henry's possible demise and my possible loss of job I sifted through his daughter's detritus which was laying on her bedroom floor. Hmmm. What do I do with six odd socks, eight hairbrushes and a laptop? Well, I sighed at first then dumped the socks in the laundry cupboard hoping their mates would eventually show themselves. The hairbrushes were quite appalling so I put them in her bathroom where they'd feel more at home. The laptop was gently closed and and looked quite out of place propped up alongside her black and white bear face bin. But at least I'd cleared some space and so could stand on the bed to reach and then dust her wall mounted telly.
Meanwhile Henry was still upstairs.
Pegging out some laundry I thought 'ok after I've done this I'm going up again'.
So I did.
Pressing my burning right cheek to his cream door I listened for life signs. Yes he was alive on account of my being able to hear the cheery sounds of BBC Radio Essex. 'Thank heavens for that' I thought and went into the bedroom next door where I picked up a pair of men's fawn leather shoes and blue velvet skirt which were heading for the dump, but which were now heading for my basket.
Henry wasn't dead after all and so happy was I that I wrote him an up beat note telling him about the trifle I'd left in the fridge for him.
I knew that'd make the big man happy.
But on the drive home creeping fears and silly worries still clogged my head 'supposing the Guiness and Vodka he'd had last night had coagulated in his enormous tum and he'd had an insufferable night with vast amounts of wind'.
What if his reconstructed hip has fallen out or something or maybe his heart has lost the plot. He'd told me last night about his ticker trouble. It loses it's rhythm or something. Anyway I needn't have worried because as I was looking at books in the charity shop he phoned, 'I'm feeling sorry for myself babe' he said.
'I came up with tea, you know' I whispered.
'Did you?' he asked
'Yes' I said
'I'm going back to bed' he moaned
'No don't' I shouted ' Go downstairs and look at your trifle' Henry is prone to depression and beds are bad for the mentally ill.
'Ok darling, I will' Henry said and hung up.
I bought my book and came home.
What a morning.
But at least I still get to wear my rubber gloves...
