The oven timer bleeps away at me from the kitchen and I hurry over to retrieve my ten-minute pizza, warming my chilly winter kitchen with the gust of hot air the oven expels. My partner is out studying tonight and I’m set with the weekly task of fending for my self, (somewhat daunting for men). She’s has taught me to make a quick garlic-mayo dip to save me from feeling completely useless in the kitchen, although tonight I’ve discovered some left over dips from our payday-Dominos: Result!
I enter the living room and fumble around trying to turn the TV on and waving the pizza around like a clumsy waiter, trying not to drop it on the floor. I know what you’re thinking but the three-second-rule doesn’t work in our house, the cats would get to it in under two (perhaps in under one as it’s got chicken on it) and then the magic would be lost forever.
Tonight, luckily, I make it to the sofa unhindered by the feline gannets and park myself firmly in the corner spot of our comfy sofa. I grab the remote and cycle through the channels until I find something of worth and then replace the remote for a slice of pizza.
I then tuck in to the chicken-y, dough-y goodness with an almost inappropriate indulgence and I’m glad no one is here to see me slop it half over my face; when… moments after I engage with the Simpsons on the box, the bloody adverts come on! WHY DOES THIS HAPPEN EVERY BLOODY TIME! I never watch the damn thing and whenever I do (usually while eating), I spend the whole meal watching the adverts, full blast, because my hands are so covered in tomato sauce and garlic-mayo dip that I daren’t touch the remote to turn it down.
My neighbours must think I’m so fanatical about beauty products, or sanitary wear, or the new series of Twilight that I need to watch the ads at full whack. The cats, by the way, have crapped themselves over the Pedigree Chum ad with the giant noisy dog on it that they are now hiding behind the sofa, all three of them, one on top of the other.
It occurs to me that I’m paying for this service… perhaps I should cancel the Sky and just sit at the table to eat, staring at the magnolia walls or talking to myself in the mirror.
NB: To my partner – please don’t leave me alone on Tuesday nights again. And please stop recording two channels at once so that when you do leave me on my own, I can watch the ads on another channel, rather than being forced to watch the ones in between episodes of America’s Next Top Model.