Duly prompted by the chilli pepper, my mind drifted blissfully off in the direction of Adam again, and the lovely meal he’d so effortlessly prepared at his home, turning down all offers of help, sensibly. So masterful in the bedroom. Sigh. Um, kitchen. God, honestly, what was the matter with me. A gloopy smile on my face, I reached for the vegetable knife, ticking off each job as I tackled it.Sigh. “Ahem.”
Tum-ti-tum. Sprinkle, sprinkle. “I’m getting good at this, Rambo. What do you reckon?”
“Thank you, sweetie.”
“I know who I’d like to cover in oil, hey, Rambo?” I chatted to my dog, in the absence of a certain other available body, as I sloshed the soup into Becky’s tureen, the bowls not being practical for transportation.
“Well, he might a bit,” I conceded, missing the tureen in favor of the working surface. Whoops. “But I’ll try to be gentle with him. Haw, haw.”
Ooh, yummy — I had a quick lick of the spoon — tastes scrummy. Not as scrummy as Adam, of course. Sigh. Attempting, yet again, to drag my lewd mind away from my delectable man, I sliced up my artisan bread — previously lovingly hand-crafted … by Becky — and peeled a clove of garlic with which to rub gently all over — the bread, not Adam. Stoppit. Then, feeling pleased with myself, I salted the bread lightly, as per instructions, plucked up the olive oil and—Ding dong went the doorbell. “Rrroowf, Rrrroowf. Grrrrr. Squeak. Splat!” went Rambo—dropped it.
“Sh… ugar! Rambo! Come here, Sweet… Eeek! ” Fit Flops, I decided, close to curtailing sexual gymnastics with Adam forever, were not desirable footwear for olive-oil-coated ceramic floors.
“Hell!” Reacquainting toes with toebar, I took a tentative step, did a little Buster-Keaton-type soft shoe shuffle, then, “Just a minute,” I trilled, clutched hold of the working surface and crawled back up the cupboard.
Phew. Well, at least I didn’t smack my chin on the way down and part company with my teeth. And at least the bottle wasn’t broken, so I didn’t have to throw myself bodily at the kitchen door, to prevent Rambo coming in and puncturing his little paws. So now what? Righting myself on my feet, I contemplated my next step. Drrriiing, went the doorbell.
“Coming!” I yelled, as Rambo went into muffled, “Squeak, grrrooowwwf,” overdrive, zoomed around in a circle and then skidded towards me.
“No! Rambo, stay!” Drat, too late, I realized, as Rambo ice-skated clackily across the kitchen floor, did a perfect figure-of-eight, then landed like Bambi, legs splayed and Piggy still feverishly gripped in his mouth.
“Baby! Oooh, shoot. Stay! Don’t move, sweetie. Mummy’s coming.”
Kicking off Fit Flops, I squelched carefully towards him, for fear of slipping again and flattening him. “Are you all right, sweetie, hmmm?”
“Aw, babe.” Careless of greasy knees, I dropped down beside him and plucked my puzzled JR up. “Has Rambo got an oily tum, then? Poor baby. Naughty floor.” Hands under armpits, I held him high and peered under his piggy to survey damage to belly, and…
Rat-a-tat-tat, came a tapping at the kitchen window. Honestly, some people. I mean, is there no privac… Oh… miGod! “Um, hi. Little accident,” I mouthed.
“Major flipping catastrophe,” I mumbled, tucking a wriggly Rambo under my arm and knee-walking across the floor. Cupboards for support, I levered myself up the sink-unit, and peered over the taps, to see Adam’s snooty mum peering back.
“He-lloo,” I trilled, and beamed her a bright, if slightly imbecilic, smile.
Her Maj blinked at me bemusedly.