Good morning! Thank you for joining me on another round of Tea with G.
I’m actually writing this from the sanctity of my bed because it’s very foggy outside which means I must remain here until it clears, right?
This week I bring to you the trauma of an ill-prepared bath and how (not) to respond when a child asks you about procreation…of chickens.
I’ve been staying up at my dad and his partner’s place this week, cat-sitting. I love staying up here because it’s in the countryside and my bedroom has the most amazing views across Cheshire. They also have a massive bathtub.
So, it’s my first night here and I’m thinking yes glass of wine, long relaxing bath with my book, phone in the other room. Pure bliss.
I text my dad a picture of a bottle of wine: looks expensive, can I drink it?
Dad gives me the go ahead so I get the water running, load her up with bubble bath and head to the kitchen to stick the corkscrew in the wine.
Once in and twisted, the cork itself started to crumble. As I pushed down on the little arms, the cork broke into pieces and released only half of it. A balancing act followed, trying to stab the cork at an area with structural integrity, without pushing the whole thing in. Normally, I’d crack on and push it in all the way, but this was so crumbly I worried I’d end up with a kind of red wine/cork gritty concoction. It was a tense old time, delicately coaxing out what remained.
With success, I pulled out the remaining chunk but did lose a fair bit of cork debris into the wine. The first glass I poured was full of tiny cork pieces bobbing around like buoys in the ocean. Do I drink it? Should I sieve it? I ended up chucking it (sorry Dad) and pouring a fresh one. Less floaters this time but still ever present in each glass that followed. Not that I drank the whole bottle that night, I actually only had one glass and you’ll see why as you read on.
During the stressful wine-cork ordeal, I’d forgotten I’d left the bath running so I legged it upstairs, tripping over my cat (don’t worry, wine was ‘breathing’ downstairs – I actually just don’t trust myself to run with things that will stain the carpet), slid into the bathroom to find the thing about half full. It’s a big old bathtub so it takes a while. I prepared my sanctuary – laid out my body scrub, body wash, face mask, body butter, tied my hair up, put my headband on, got my book, got a towel, got my dressing gown, got undressed, got my wine, got in the bath.
It was fucking boiling.
I’d forgotten that hot taps are, well, hot and hadn’t added any cold. I got out of the bath while the cold taps ran and smothered my face in some green gloopy face mask that promised to brighten my complexion.
Once tolerable, I submerged my body into the water, still horribly hot but didn’t feel like I was cooking this time. I lay there, sipping my wine, arms draped over the side like some regal bather.
It was still fucking boiling.
My facemask started to melt and run down my neck and into my eyes, I’d forgotten to light the candles, so the ambience was all off, I hadn’t even picked up my book yet and my cat was scratching at the door and crying to be let in. As I tried to prop myself up to grab a towel, I knocked all the toy dragons off their shelf and into the water with nice big splash. (The toy dragons aren’t mine, they belong to my Dad’s partner’s grandson). I’d actually started to feel a little light-headed so called it all off, wiped away the remainders of my face mask and lay down on my bed while my body came back to normal temperature. No more bath. No more wine. No more dragons.
I also had the honour this week of taking my nephew to his Beavers club. In the car, he piped up with, “you’re a scientist aren’t you?” I always feel full of dread when anyone starts a sentence like this because it usually means they’re going to ask a question that I do not know the answer to. I’m flattered that they consider me a fountain of knowledge but my science comprehension is pretty much limited to the GCSE spectrum and some random half-facts I can remember from my degree, like the symmetry of molecules and something called spin-spin coupling and Heisenberg’s Uncertainty principle but fuck if I know what any of that means.
“Yes, I guess I am a scientist.”
“Right so I have a question for you. You know chickens and they lay eggs and sometimes they are eggs and sometimes they are chickens?”
For a minute I think he’s taunting me as there is a family joke between me, my dad and my brother about the time I asked about ducks and duck eggs.
“Yes…”
“So how do you know if an egg will be an egg or a chicken?”
Here’s what happened in my brain:
How do you know if an egg will be an egg or a chicken? I think I learnt something in A Level biology about fertilisation of the egg before it develops a shell? But honestly I could have made that up and also can you say fertilisation to a seven year old? The rooster has to be involved somewhere, surely? I can’t talk about chicken sex. I don’t know anything about chicken sex. Do chickens have sex? Unless…do chickens reproduce asexually? No. No that’s silly of course they don’t. Remember when there was a live hatching on telly at Easter one time? Didn’t they have an egg inside an egg? That was cool. Wait no that still doesn’t answer the question. Here goes…
“Well, bud, the eggs you get from the supermarket will never be chickens, they’re just eggs.” I’m quite sure he knows that, but I definitely stuck one under a lamp for a week once to see if it would hatch.
“The thing is, the chicken has to decide if it wants a chick or an egg.” WHAT?
“The chicken will know if it’s laying an egg or a chicken – not that it lays the chicken, obviously, it will be in the egg.” STOP TALKING.
“So I guess it depends on what mood the chicken is in.” OH DEAR LORD.
“I don’t know a huge amount about chickens and their eggs, mate, sorry.” I should have just led with that.
He remained silent for my whole explanation and nodded in acceptance when I’d finished, because why would his aunty who is a scientist not know the answer to that question? I just pray that he doesn’t go onto the playground like I know where chickens come from, my aunty told me!
What came first, the chicken or the egg? I guess it depends on what mood the chicken was in…
What I’m listening to: Your Place – Ashley Cooke
She’s supporting at the gig on Friday and I am so buzzed to hear this one.
What I’m (still) reading: The Bee Sting – Paul Murray
Sorry, did you not see that was over 600 pages long?! I am still going…
One of my favourite reads from last year was Still Life – Sarah Winman. It’s a book about love, friendship and family. It’s set in a rough and ready UK pub and Florence, Italy. And there’s a parrot in it, too.
Enjoy your tea,
Gx
Once again… soooo funny. Loving the chicken v egg scenario! Hilarious!!