The new electronic scales lay upside down, seeped in milky batter, a glass tottered around the floor, little shards glinting from my big toe. I sat there, horrified and then yelped out loud at my own idiotic, irritating stupidity. Kelly came running through, all concerned to see her mummy lying in a heap, uncooked Yorkshire pudding surrounding her; she;d have been less shocked if it had been blood.
She tried to come to my rescue, the wee soul but I told her to go get daddy who no doubt sighed when Kelly suggested that there had been an accident. The clumsiness of his daft wife (who has realised that these 'episodes' happen 1 month apart...)must irk, especially as he usually has to pick up the pieces; he came down the stairs to rescue me.
Before he arrived, as I sat with my face in my hands, I saw two little feet heading towards me; I peeked out from between my fingers to see Fraser suddenly freeze, take in the situation and slowly retrace his steps backwards, like a cartoon burglar, hoping to have not been seen. This was less to do with the fact that he didn't want to help and more to do with him thinking he'd somehow, somewhere, get blamed. He is of the Bart Simpson school of "It wasn't me!" even if caught with cookies in his hand and chocolate round his face.
Brian cleaned everything up, fixed the scales although they kept saying 'error'...a bit like my head...and I sighed, got out more eggs, weighted scales and started all over again. To add insult to injury, I had to use the hand whisk as the electric ones had egg yolk running up inside the plughole.
We eventually had a meal of roast beef, Yorkshire pudding, roast potatoes, buttered baby jersey potatoes and a variety of vegetables. With gravy. Lots of gravy.
Vintage Kitty....I couldn't leave a comment or message, then I saw your wee tag; hope everything is ok! x
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