Today the kettle went missing. I followed the cord from the socket and through the pile of mess that lay on the bench, only to find the end severed, electrical wires exposed sharply. The kettle had made a break for it. It had travelled out of the putrid kitchen, down the rotting, lopsided back steps and into the uncut grass of the backyard. It howled under the Hills Hoist and violently lopped off down past the patch of weeds which was once allegedly a vegetable garden and on to freedom.
Freedom.
I only wish that I could follow it, sever the cords and be free. I am, however, bound to this house for the next six months of my life through the powerful magic of the lease. It could be said that six months is rather a substantial amount of time to be somewhere you don’t want to be. But then this seems to be out of my control. I cannot bolt, just simply wait. All I seem to do is wait. Time will make things better.
Time.
Time is limited. Time should not be wasted in bad share houses, depressing jobs or mind-injuring flings. The only advice I am given is to wait. Wait things out and time will do the job for you. Well has time done anything for me lately? No?
Letting time pass is not the solution. And why should I waste my time by letting it pass?
Do kettles have a concept of time?
Later, I hang out my washing. The basket is heavy with sopping wet, semi-clean articles – the washing machine refuses to spin – and the cheap plastic handles strain in my hands. I stumble through the tall grass and kick something that feels like a small electrical appliance, perhaps one that had escaped earlier.
The kettle didn’t make it. What hope do I have now? Time really is the only escape. Should I hope that my time passes quickly? Should I just wait until it is time to spend the rest of my time differently? Should I wish my precious time away?
So I carry the kettle back inside. We’re in this together.
I wash off some grass, fill the kettle and set the switch to boil. I make a cup of tea, sit down and wait for time to pass.