These are the burglars I’m sorry for because we all work from home
Jane Bowron is a Christchurch-based journalist and author
OPINION: A friend, whose new refrigerator had just been delivered, invited me to ooh and aah at all its myriad compartments and the sheer amount of storage in the freezer department.
Like Housewives of the 1950s, we made all the right noises renting the refrigerator to heaven, and she pretended to kiss her front door — tongue and all. With all the talk of new refrigerators, I decided it was high time to clean mine, which looked primitive and dirty in comparison.
Early in my ownership of the 14-year-old refrigerator, there had been a disaster. The side pocket sleeve had broken and the spillage was large. After searching high and low for the elusive spare part, I glued it back together by hand.
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When this breakage happened, I remember yelling at the broken part, “You only had one job,” before hailing a speedy taxi and fantasizing about hitting a button. in my purse to activate a bomb that blew the rest of the fridge to pieces.
This all happened many moons ago, and I forgot about it when I soaked the sleeve in hot soapy water, dried it off, and put it back on. Just as I tried to close the door, the fractured sleeve shattered again and a profusion of glass jars and condiment sauce bottles crashed to the floor in a riot of color that any artist decent expressionist would have been proud.
And don’t forget the milk to add to the confusion. Nothing like the smell of spilled cow that lingers in a mat to make your nostrils quiver.
I am proud to report that I did not resort to a temper tantrum. There was too much to do to prepare for the big OO (Omicron Outbreak), which loomed over us all, making some of us, regardless of gender or age, feel a kind of premenstrual tension waiting. of this one.
More glue was applied and with the fridge cleaned out and all the jars of pesto and jams with fur thrown in the trash, it was time to pop into the freezer and attack the next level of cool hell.
I was prepared for the problem of packages of frozen peas tied with clothespins, and that those expensive little packages could most likely be traced back to the John Key administration. They never make frozen peas small enough for the career bachelor and sure enough I counted 11 previously penetrated frozen packets.
And what was it that was hiding in the other mysterious frozen packages, which looked like meat – but I’d never seen meat on a hide or butcher’s display? Nothing else to do but thaw out “the pieces” to forensically see what we had here, Detective Bowron.
Look, I’ve watched enough episodes of Vera to know that frozen evidence is rich pickings for criminal activity, which leads me to rummage through the obscurity of memory banks to see if I could remember a home murder – the cutting up of visitors or disreputable burglars and the salting of body parts in the freezer, to be buried at a later date.
No. I was pretty sure that hadn’t happened and after dumping the packages on the back lawn overnight I woke up to find something had chewed through the plastic and eaten the contents.
I’ll never know what that mystery meat was, but the experience made me think of the burglar. With so many workers working from home and rarely leaving the premises, our domiciled presence thwarts the hard-working burglar unable to get to their workplace.