Domesticity

Contrary to popular opinion, I can cook. I can.
*stamps foot*
Just not in the kitchen in my flat; advertised as coming with 'all cooking essentials,' out of the five of us, none of us thought to check for a hob- foolishly, as it turns out, as it seems to be missing. But what we do have is a fully workable extractor fan above where the hob should be, so if anyone wants to swap?

And I'm a student! I can't possibly be expected to be able to cook anything that doesn't require frying or boiling; I've only recently worked out how to do pasta- thrilling domestic stuff. Big greasy fry ups I can do*, pancakes I can sort of toss and eggs I can, in theory, boil.
Whereas the only thing I can do in the oven is cheese on toast. With onion, to add that little bit of class.
In my defense, I moved out of my mothers' house when I was 17; as such, I learned to cook as a matter of basic survival, as opposed to having any thoughts of health and the four key food groups rattling around in my head; but the essential elements of a healthy diet were incorporated; they are salt, saturated fat and alcohol, right?

Oh, and I lost two stone, so something was going right. But I digress.

Somehow, regardless of its myriad short-comings (key among these would be the coffee coloured tiles), the kitchen has become the conversational centre of the flat. I blame this on the broken boiler; without heating we've been spending increasing amounts of time in the kitchen with oven on and door open.
We might therefore be going to hell for such flagrant abuse and waste of electricity, but at least we'll arrive with toes and fingers intact.

Do people still get chilblains?

Or we might even have our knees broken for not being able to pay our bills, but whatever. S'ages away, innit?

Last night I was to be found sitting on the kitchen counter, with unnecessarily tall Rick stood in front of me as I straightened his waist length hair- unlike normal long boy hair, it's nice.
Clean, brushed. No split ends or any of that greasy nonsense boykind normally go in for when they grow their hair past shoulder-length; not that I'm generalising here, of course. Ahem. Anyway, as I was saying; finding a position that's comfy for the hour or so it takes to straighten his hair is tough, but this one seems to work.
As I worked away** we talked and got to know one another a tad better; he's Absent Toby flatmate's friend, not mine.

It shows.

An hour after starting, I ran my fingers through his finally straight hair checking for any missed knots and kinks. As my fingers brushed the back of his neck he flinched and I pulled back.
"Sorry," he said slightly sheepishly, "I have this thing about the back of my neck."
"Oh yes?" I inquired genteely, just knowing I'd regret it.
"Oh, yes indeed. Can you just imagine this for me; a piece of warm buttered toast touching the back of your neck?"
I flinched.
"Yes! You see?"

I didn't want to hurt his feelings by telling him I'd just burned myself on the straighteners, so I paused, trying frantically to think of something to say. 'Bless you' just wouldn't cut it, not would 'well.. I can't say it's ever occurred to me.'
The seconds ticked past and he blushed, pulling away. Just then, the toaster made a loud pinging noise and tossed two pieces of toast up into the air.
Perfect timing; I laughed, he laughed, and now I have a new- albeit rather strange- friend.


* Just not for myself, brand new vegetarian that I'm trying to be.
** I always wanted to be a hairdresser. Then I started wearing heels, and a love affair began; and I realised it would be impossible to sustain such dizzying heights and stand up all day. So I came to university instead.