Just So

Who would have thought that I, anyone, could develop such a vitriolic, pathological hatred of ice. Not dry ice, ice cream, ice crystals, iced cakes, ice bergs, ice rinks … but ice cubes. If I never see another ice cube again, I’ll be deliriously happy, except I’ve got another fortnight to go.

Hubby had his knee bionic-ed last week. Several years ago, I had my shoulder bionic-ed and, for six weeks, I wore a sling and kept my shoulder motionless, apart from specific, controlled exercises four times a day. Hubby brought me cups of tea and breakfast in bed, scrambled my eggs, boiled my soup, burned my pizza, drowned my salad, drove me to weekly hair appointments, and now he wants a piece of that. Payback time.

He’s conveniently forgotten, however, that he wasn’t a paragon of untarnished virtue during my incapacitation. He fancied some American muffins so he said he’d make them if I’d instruct him. Easy enough. Wet ingredients in bowl one. Dry ingredients in bowl two. Add one to two and fold. No, don’t whisk; fold. No, don’t stir; fold. No don’t whatever you’re doing; fold. FFS hold the bowl steady and give me the spoon!

Back to the ice. After knee-replacement surgery the swelling is, to put it mildly, noticeable and the bruising kaleidoscopic if not psychedelic. Icing is the order of the day. But Hubby went private where bags of peas are so passé, darling. One must have a must-have ice machine at £300 per month rental. The idea is, you (i.e. I) fill the chamber with a little water and a lorra ice cubes, and the machine pumps chilled water around a leg ‘sleeve’ for 30 minutes on, 30 minutes off, all day every day for three weeks. You know those large Ziploc bags you can buy in Waitrose? (You can probably buy them in Aldi but I wouldn’t know and I don’t want to). That blasted machine needs four-to-six of those every day. I am forever filling ice cube trays with water, freezing them on fast-freeze at a rate that consumes enough electricity to give Ed Miliband a coronary (if only), emptying the cubes into said Ziploc bags, rinse and repeat. All day. Every day. Firstly, it’s boring. Secondly, sometimes I empty the ice cube trays before they’re fully frozen so that the cubes in the bags freeze together and I need a steak mallet before I can get anything to fit the infamous machine. Also, said bags tend to split, and ice cubes shoot everywhere. Trays get over-filled and spill into the freezer, and I can’t get the trays out again. Emptying bags into the machine can also end in disaster. What I’m trying to say is, ice cubes, shards of ice, and water are not user-friendly, and I am really really really fed up mopping up the counter, floor, table and my denim jeans.

Ever the problem solver, I remembered that neighbour H has an ice-making feature to her freezer. I don’t, coz I don’t often need ice. Hmm. I asked her if I could have a bag of ice one evening. I knew it wouldn’t be a hardship for her because she’s not a gin and tonic gal, but a red winer (as well as an honorary Red Waller), and lots of it. With no ice. So she removed the container from the freezer, emptied it into my bag, and struggled for 10 minutes to replace the container while the freezer alarm went off incessantly. Doubt she’ll want to do that again.

I was reminded one evening, while freezing my fingers off retrieving ice cubes from places ice cubes had no right to be, of that wonderful Hans Chrisian Andersen fairy tale, “The Snow Queen”. It’s one of many takes on the struggle between good and evil. A magic mirror, which distorts good into evil, shatters and some shards find their way into people's eyes and hearts, turning them into cold, nasty bottom-feeders. I’m thinking Dawn Butler, who said Kemi is a black-faced white supremacist; Narinder Kaur, who said Princess Kate had aged dreadfully and she must be a smoker; Thieves Reeves for telling more lies than lives she’s ruined; Essex Police for being Kafkaesque instead of kompetent; the silly lefty who called me a transphobe for railing against the male boxer who enjoys beating up women, which makes him a misogynist; he also called me a racist, yet he’s a vile antisemite.

Talking about fairy tales and cold, nasty bottom-feeders, one brilliant writer who’s a master of the former and a victim of the latter is Rudyard Kipling. I mean, he doesn’t stand a chance does he: a white, English, middle-class, Empire-advocate? That’s more than enough to trigger those who don’t share a fraction of his talent, intellect, insight, humour and humanity into an anti-Trump-like meltdown. I’m imagining queen of the bottom-feeders (pertinent phrase by the Daily Mail’s Sarah Vine), Shola Mos-Shogbamimu, spitting shards of mirror at the mere mention of Mowgli. Don’t worry, she’s got enough shards in her to last a lifetime. And I wonder what ex-(yes!)-ArchBish Welby thinks of Kipling. Actually, no I don’t. He’s an irrelevance. Out of touch. His moral compass missing the magnetic mark every time.

Growing up, Sis, Bro and I adored a book in Dad’s collection – Rudyard Kipling’s Just So Stories. After he and then Mum passed, I took charge of most of their library, and it was only the other day that I realised I didn’t have the Kipling. I was on my way back to the London flat after visiting Hubby in hospital – leg safely ensconced in ice-cold sleeve – when I remembered that my favourite bookshop was just around the corner. More accurately, it’s a rare second-hand bookshop. The first time I visited it, I’d just popped in to kill some time but ended up buying a signed copy of one of Maggie’s memoirs. My second visit saw me come away with another signed copy of more of Maggie’s musings. So ’twas with anticipation that I waltzed through the door this dark and gloomy November afternoon. Nothing by Maggie today, but lots of other fascinating books of all genres. I came to the children’s section and was about to move straight on when one particular book caught my eye. It was larger than A5, smaller than A4, the cover red, with a black sketch of a crocodile pulling an elephant’s trunk. It was Dad’s Just So Stories that hadn’t made its way to my collection. I took a photo and messaged Sis – did she have it? Nope. Bro by any chance? Nope. I had a peek inside. It was a 1902 first edition. Our granddad (Dad’s Dad) was born in 1900 and I reckon the volume we grew up with had been his, purchased by his Dad, a Professor of Music. The Prof died in 1922, but his widow, our great-granny, we remember fondly as she died at the grand old age of 95 in 1967.

By purchasing this book, I was once again reconnected with my family who were probably sitting ‘upstairs’, willing me on. Hubby on the other hand, when he checked the credit card the next day, vowed to go to a hospital on the other side of the world when he has his other knee done. His other knee? That means another three weeks of astronomical electricity bills, frozen fingers, and mopping up. 

Maybe I could cheer myself up by attending a séance and asking Kipling to pen a ‘Just So’ story just for me. Something along the lines of: How ice cubes lost their annoyance, How water lost its wet, or How Labour lost the plot. I’m also thinking of: How the British Empire was the best thing that ever happened to the colonies, How Islam was hijacked by Hamas, and How Tommy Robinson was vindicated.

But I think Essex police have enough on their plate already.