The kitchen still reeks of burnt chocolate.
I’ll admit that I perhaps reacted a bit too slow to the situation.
I’d spent that day morosely contemplating my own existence, doubting my mind, my memories and my love for my children. Call it a mid-life crisis, call it a nervous breakdown – whatever it was, it’s done now and I’m back on track. At least I feel like I am.
Causing a minor blaze in the kitchen was (now go with me here) was probably the best thing that could have happened to me. After a minute or so of gazing dumbfounded at the suddenly hazardous situation, I snapped to my senses and realised that if I continued to simply do nothing then my kitchen, my home, my life would literally come crumbling down around me.
One bucket of water and several ruined tea towels later the fire was out. The smoke alarm cut out suddenly and I was left in near-silence on the damp, sooty kitchen floor with the meditative drip of the sink tap, slowly sending me off to sleep. Just before I felt myself drifting off though, there was a knock at the door and I found myself clambering to my feet, absentmindedly attempting to fix my hair, rubbing the charred crumbs of the failed brownie into my (fortunately) charcoal dress.
The delivery man looked a little shocked at my appearance, I think he even asked me if I was alright, I suppose the smell of the fire had clung to me.
“My husband’s filed for divorce, he’s taken our kids to his parents and I just broke my oven.” Stood there in his brown-tan UPS get up, I felt like I’d perhaps answered his question with a little too much personal information.
“Well, here’s your package from ASOS. Guess that’s the least of your worries…maybe get your oven fixed and then think about calling your husband?”
I thanked him for his advice and closed the door, clutching the soft, plastic package in my hand. The man spoke sense. The oven needed repairing and I should probably think about calling Harry. I’d perhaps indulged a little too much in introspection over the last few days and the time had definitely come for action.
I’d spent too long thinking, obsessing and worrying over the superficial things in life that simply didn’t matter.
Things like new dresses from ASOS, like holiday photos of my friends on Instagram, like blogging about my thoughts to an audience of approximately no-one. It was time to actually do something that mattered: like calling in for Lamona oven repairs, like talking to Harry instead of at him, like spending time with my kids, instead of just using them as props for the perfect life that I was trying to convince the world that I had.
All good intentions, indeed. Of course, the first thing that I did, before anything else, was lay down all my thoughts on this blog.