I'm sure everyone has had the fantasy where they fashion a blade out of ice, stab their boss 17 times in the back of the face, only for the murder weapon to melt away leading to sweet, sweet exoneration?
Well I have. The thought occurred to me this morning in defrosting my fridge. Getting a new one delivered this morning, you see, so I'll have the use of a freezer compartment for the first time since I moved in here.
My hands hurt, I had to use a fork for a chisel, and my flat is like the set of a Kevin Costner vanity project.
Still, I'm doing it for the Fish Fingers, for the steak I don't want to eat right away, for ice cream (fuck the cholesterolic problems), for frozen vegetables which, apparently, are healthier than the fresh variety.
Bring on the country mix.
As I type, there's a basin of hot water working its magic inside the old ice box, I'm hoping that that last tricky bit of frozen water divorces itself from the wires at the side and I can proceed to wait patiently for the delivery men, and wait, and wait.
Maybe I'll just skip town, go here and meet the quare fella.