Gnarly Sunday.

So gnarly was it, that it is now Wednesday and I can only just get my head around it.
I had an event at my school. As a teacher I have worked many events over the last 15 years and I LOVE to do them, but hosting the event, having someone else come in and actually ‘do’ it, does my head in.
It requires all sorts of skills that I am so sorely lacking, like relaying information to participants, preparing, shopping for, calculating how many slices of bread required for 20 kids and just basic organisation.
So although it went off without a hitch and the kids all seemed to really enjoy it, and our guest, the lovely Rodney gave a great show, by the end of it, I was absolutely exhausted.
So what on earth made me think it was a wise idea to go home and cook a huge roast pork dinner in my new oven, on a stinking hot day, I do not know, I really don’t.
I did though, I did decided to do a full Sunday roast and all the trimmings.
The meat was in, then I put the roast potatoes in, and then I had a chat with my cousin who will come and visit me in August.
We were chatting about dates and practicalities, what to bring, what not to bring etc, when it was time to take the spuds out.
So with the phone nestled under my chin, I opened the oven door and proceeded to remove the heavy, heavy hot hot hot, tray of spuds and boiling oil.
Did I reach for one of the many many oven gloves that hang to the side of the oven? No I did not.
Did I reach for the flimsy tea-towel? Yes I did.
So while merrily chatting away, I pull the tray out, which, of course was way too hot, and way too heavy for the flimsy tea-towel, and proceeded to burn my fingers.
I also had neglected to clear a space on the counter top to put the tray on, so I did a little hot dance around the kitchen and then threw it on the floor. the new floor!!

I am quintessentially English, so continued my conversation.
” yes yes, deordorant, bring lots of deodorant, if , like me, you sweat like a racehorse in summer, the Japanese ones just wont cut it..”
and scrabbled around on the floor with lashings of kitchen towel, mopping up hot oiland rescuing roast spuds and STILL trying to pick up the tray with the flimsy tea-towel.
All done, no worries, fingers in cold water, finish conversation, start on white sauce.
By this time my fingers were killing me, so I got a glass of ice and kept dipping them in that while I finished the dinner.
We all had a wonderful family dinner.
I lie, we did not, kids were all in a bad mood, no peaceful, give-thanks type dinner for us. I still had my fingers in ice.
The Man, foolishly, asked me why I didn’t use the oven glove, or the tray doodad thing.
Why does he do that? every time I do something monumentally stupid he asks me why
I didn’t do it the non-stupid way. I don’t freakin know, I wish I did, then maybe I would stop doing stupid things.
9 O’clock, arguments over, tears all dried up, time for The Amazing Race, should be good tonight because the vile Jonathan and Victoria are out. Settle on sofa with fingers in glass of ice, promptly fall asleep, and only wake up because of the shock of spilling the ice water all over myself and sofa.
Go to bed with fingers in large bowl of ice water, I don’t care if it spills.
Roll on next Sunday.

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