Cowabunga, Dude
I read the instructions before I start, as instructed, and then proceed.
Making the paste is easy, but straining it is less so – I get the mixture all over the cramped work surface, and reflect ruefully that I should really have cleaned up the detritus of my breakfast before attempting this. The mugs and bowls and the cornflakes packet are getting in the way, although admittedly not as much as the sewing machine, which I haven’t put away.  I mop up the mess and continue.
“Bring to the boil, stirring continuously†it tells me. This I do. It takes some time, and I feel rather like I belong in the 1950s, in my cut-off jeans and flip-flops, cheeky cigarette in hand. I poke nervously at the mixture with a chopstick. It bubbles, blackly.
Checking the instructions once more, I can’t suppress a childish snigger.  “Reduce temperature and simmer for 15 minutesâ€. I use the chopsticks to poke at the pair of oil-stained shorts bubbling away on top of my counter top stove; the witch’s brew of fabric dye spills over the edge and hisses on the hot plate.
I can hear Bart Simpson’s voice in my head, and I can’t help wishing someone else was here so that I could serve up the finished article on a plate, and tell them to eat my shorts. Unfortunately I am alone, and so the only person who is amused by my total hilariousness is me.
Plus ça change…