Picture this: it’s 7am. It’s not quite wintry enough to justify the cost of turning on the radiator for twenty minutes, but god I wish it was. All I want is a steaming cup of tea, but the kettle has decided to fuck itself. I’ve turned to boiling water in a pan, ladling scalding water into mugs and spilling half of it over my hands.
What was once a two-minute run-of-the-mill task has turned into a ten-minute chore of pacing back and forth on cold kitchen tiles, shivering in my layers (tights, pyjama bottoms, and two jumpers) while I wait for the cold water to boil.
Worse things have happened, sure, but waking up has become more of a challenge since the disruption of my morning ritual.
The broken kettle remains where she died, tucked within the grotty piece of counter between the spice rack and cooker, fooling me every time I stumble into the kitchen, still half asleep.
The new one is on its way, but for now, I’ll just be suffering, with my pan-boiled water, tea reheated in the microwave.
Photo by Ioann-Mark Kuznietsov on Unsplash