(Are we doing these again?)
I'm not short.
But the cupboards in the kitchen are a little high up.
This morning, in the middle of cooking lunch and dinner to have at school, I reached up to the top shelf to grab a container for my awesome concoctions and something somewhere lost balance and suddenly knives were tipping down towards my face. I dodged these, and the pans that crashed down, and managed to avoid cooking my fingers white on the searing hob. This time. >.> The spices my mother gave me the day I moved out also decided to make a bid for freedom (fair enough, considering I'd been shipping them around various flats and rooms for years and never treated them with anything better than neglect). It was over in seconds, and I was left in the smoky atmosphere of the tiny-kitchen-with-windows-that-get-stuck-two-inches-up feeling slightly sorry for myself; more-so when I noticed the susurration of the rapidly-depleting rice supply out of its bag.
Embarrassingly, the cleaner walked in as I was standing on a chair (yes, I resorted to this) trying to clear up the mess of rice and spice with tissue paper. He took over, which was very kind of him, silencing my, "I'm really sorry, I'll do it, it's okay, I want to do it, I made the mess, it's my fault," with a simple, "I know."
I'm not short, but I can be pretty clumsy.
But the cupboards in the kitchen are a little high up.
This morning, in the middle of cooking lunch and dinner to have at school, I reached up to the top shelf to grab a container for my awesome concoctions and something somewhere lost balance and suddenly knives were tipping down towards my face. I dodged these, and the pans that crashed down, and managed to avoid cooking my fingers white on the searing hob. This time. >.> The spices my mother gave me the day I moved out also decided to make a bid for freedom (fair enough, considering I'd been shipping them around various flats and rooms for years and never treated them with anything better than neglect). It was over in seconds, and I was left in the smoky atmosphere of the tiny-kitchen-with-windows-that-get-stuck-two-inches-up feeling slightly sorry for myself; more-so when I noticed the susurration of the rapidly-depleting rice supply out of its bag.
Embarrassingly, the cleaner walked in as I was standing on a chair (yes, I resorted to this) trying to clear up the mess of rice and spice with tissue paper. He took over, which was very kind of him, silencing my, "I'm really sorry, I'll do it, it's okay, I want to do it, I made the mess, it's my fault," with a simple, "I know."
I'm not short, but I can be pretty clumsy.