Wordpretzels, those of you who are fanatical Rural Spaceman followers (both of you, if the medication hasn’t worked)will know that 6 years ago, I told the tale of getting my oven licence.
My concluding line was that I should get the hang of it after 9 or 10 years. No such luck. That was 2012 and since then, one of the ovens caused us lots of trouble, mainly with a faulty door. After several call outs, involving a man who found it extremely inconvenient that, as an emergency call out engineer, we called him out for several emergencies, with a point blank refusal to change the whole oven. Until the 9th or 10th call out, when he came in, stared at the still faulty oven door and marched out to his van again. After several minutes, when Lady Barton St Mary and I worried that he would return with a silenced semi automatic pistol and slot us both in the head, he appeared to tell us they’d ‘replace the bloody thing’. Hoorah.
Until a month ago, when I discovered our ‘new’ (5 year old) oven had melted its knobs and virtually given up the ghost. I must admit, if my knob melted I’d probably give up the ghost too, but at my age that may take a little longer to discover.
Anyway, this was the start of a new quest for Lady BSM to find a new oven. Ominous reminders of various ‘quests’ loomed up in my mind – the ‘K’ word, (not for the faint hearted – the kitchen planner is on the road to recovery and is due to be discharged next year), light fittings, curtains, blinds, paint colours, all carefully researched to the nth degree.
And so it started. Early one Saturday morning, in the darkness, I turned over in bed to witness Lady BSM’s lovely face illuminated by the glow of a mobile phone screen.
‘Do we need a rotisserie option?’ she asked.
I try to stay clear of Lady BSM’s research phase and wait for the preliminary reduced choice list. She looks at me imploringly with her beautiful blue eyes.
‘Which oven should I choose? I can’t decide between Neff or Miele,’ she said. I considered. The best tactic here is to just choose one and gauge the reaction.
‘Oh, Neff, I think,’ I replied.
She gave me a look like I’d pulled down my pants and nail varnished my willy.
Success. We were narrowing it down. Time for her to visit the kitchen appliance shop, sans me of course. This continued for a couple of weeks, until one Saturday she set off for the shop with the intention of making a final decision. At 4pm, I received a phone call after refereeing a football game.
‘Hello, please come to the shop! I can’t make up my mind!’
By 4.30pm, I was in the shop staring at shiny metal boxes with various knobs and whistles, a dazzling array of electronic wizardry. After lots of deliberation, opening and closing of oven doors and knob twiddling, the Miele won. We made our way to the sales counter to meet Jacqui, the lady who’d been assisting Lady BSM on her earlier visits. Jacqui and Lady BSM were well acquainted by now, they were like old friends, although Jacqui appeared to be a little apprehensive as Lady BSM approached.
‘We’ve decided. We’ll take the Miele,’announced Lady BSM.
Jacqui clutched her chest, drawing her work tunic into her balled fist.
Our ovens are now safely installed, thanks to Pete the friendly electrician. They are very well made and extremely heavy, according to Pete the friendly herniated electrician.
Which means my oven licence training will start again soon. These ovens are paralytic like the last ones, but this time they can steam stuff, which I’m sure will require an ology.
However, so far, they seem to be able to tell me what to do in simple steps, don’t make too many shrill noises and produce beautifully cooked food. A bit like Lady BSM, really.