Sometimes

by

Bryan Fowler

Sometimes I think that our fridge is bigger on the inside than it is on the outside, a tardus if you like. It is a place where an ever increasing collection of diverse objects proliferate, and for all that I know propagate. There are objects that occupy the darkest region of our appliance that look at me with an insouciant air when I disturb their slumber while engaged in a frantic search for that piece of bacon or whatever, that I know, or thought that I knew was there somewhere, and they seem to say, “go away, you little inconsequential human you are disturbing our equilibrium”.

Sometimes I think that our fridge deliberately hides objects. I know that I put that half onion exactly there, right there, except it isn’t, and when I find it, and I desperately need it to complete the casserole that I am creating how in the name of whatever Greek god who presides over cold did it manage to get right up in the far corner behind the jar of something jam that Aunt Mavis left two years ago? The jam jar reminds me of another aspect of our fridges antisocial behaviour; where do all of those unlabeled jars come from? I’m sure that I didn’t put them there, and who would want to consume the sticky gooey multicoloured substances that lurk malevolently in their depths?

Sometimes I think that our fridge contains a gateway to another universe, a wormhole perhaps. This would explain the variety of odd objects that appear from time to time, and the disappearance of objects that I have placed there. Perhaps all of my fridges aberrant behaviours could be corrected if I were to give it a good old fashioned “dung out”. But frankly, and just between you and me I am a little afraid of what I might find there. Could there be an alien life form lurking there behind the slightly worn out cabbage? Best to let sleeping dogs lie I’d say.