Burning Down The House

Picking up where we left off, the girl so generously shared her flu with not only myself, but also the boychild. Hubby was lucky (?) enough to be working night shift and so hasn't had enough contact to acquire the dreaded virus... yet.

In an attempt to save at least half the village from the same fate, I kept both kids home today, where they could fester away without infecting anyone else. I know, I'm a martyr. Especially when you consider that the babysitter gets paid regardless of whether they attend, I probably do qualify for some small indulgence from the universe. But alas, today was not the day.

Not only did I get my nose rubbed in it by way of not one, but two invitations to be a lady who lunches, but then I got company. And not the kind of company it's ok to get when you are still commando in your ancient (read translucent at best) pyjamas at noon o'clock on a Tuesday with your hair unwashed and uncombed. Ohhh no....not for me.

I got the kind who not only has never seen me outside of work, but is now doing so when the kitchen table has yet to be wiped down and there are actual coffee stains on the floor. Nice one. Oh yeah, and not a biscuit in the house. Thank Gawd the milk didn't curdle in the tea - that would have just been too much.

But wait. It gets better. Not only does said company show up unannounced, and "doesn't mind" that we're all sick, Company then proceeds to unload not only its job-related woes, but also its misery, and its insanity - right there in my kitchen. With my sick kids in earshot. Four hours. Pardon? No, I spelled that correctly, yes...four, count em, 4, hours.

Why, you ask, did I put up with company for this long, particularly when I'm sick? Good question. I need to meet with Miss Manners. Or Doctor Kevorkian. But, in fairness, after a reasonable length of time, I was (well, I thought I was) rescued by needy children. Who played the part brilliantly, by the way, coming into the room all pasty white and shit and asking for lunch. So, I fed them...and tidied afterward; which, by the way, isn't easy to do when you are trying to keep your ass in its transparent bottoms from being on parade.

Not wanting to be rude, I had deferred the roasting of the chicken until company left. Incidentally, is there anything better than roast chicken dinner when you're sick? So, it was 4:30ish by the time company actually left (if you do the math that's two point five hours after the announcement that company was leaving, but who's counting?) I figured I could use the fan assisted feature of the oven to start the bird and that would cut the roasting time thereby making dinner ready at the appropriate time. WRONG!

Thirty minutes into bird cooking and the living room filled with smoke. This was particularly impressive as the living room is two rooms away from the kitchen. When the smoke detector sounded, I dragged myself from the blog I was currently reading and went to investigate.

Once I let enough smoke out to actually see inside the oven, I was able to inspect the chicken through my tears. At first glance, it was perfect...all golden brown and lovely looking. Unfortunately, however, it was raw. And it stayed that way. For hours. Not four this time, but hours all the same. How on earth can you burn and undercook a chicken at the same time?

My eyes are still stinging.