But anyway, let me fill you in on where we are at.
Long story short, we’ve finished working and are now living in a caravan in the motor camp up the road from our place while we get used to how it all works. Or doesn’t, as in the case of the fridge on day one.
We’re out of the house apart from one or two last-minute cleaning duties in readiness for tenants moving in and what happens? Mrs P’s illness flares and she’s bedridden for a few days.
No matter. Super Kev is on the job. Fearless in the face of dirt and grime. Able to mop a floor with one hand and wipe the bathroom shower glass with the other. Easy. And all done in the twinkling of an eye.
That just left the oven to be cleaned.
Now here’s where it all got rather interesting.
I’m sure I have mentioned somewhere in the past, when it comes to cleaning Mrs P is top-notch. All Blacks level. In fact, captain of the winning All Blacks in the World Cup final level if you get my drift.
So, it was with some concern etched upon her pretty little face my beloved called me to her bedside for a pep talk shortly before I set off to the now-empty house to clean the oven, ready for the new tenants to move in the next day.
Having cleaned ovens before, I was not concerned. I mean, I’m a bloke, I’ve cleaned stuff like this before no problem. Well, at least nobody’s ever told me my efforts were a problem. I just figured if it looked good, er, enough, it was. Job done.
Judging by the repeated instructions from Mrs P, I’d say she was perhaps a little less confident than I. Regardless, I set off with her final words ringing in my ears.
“The oven cleaner is in the orange can. You just spray it on, leave it a while and then wipe it off.”
Sure enough, I found the can. Gave it a good shake and sprayed it on liberally as directed. And, sure enough, it all went white and frothy for a while. First part of the job done, I went and did some other jobs for a few hours before returning for the final wipe-out.
Hmmm. Problem.
It wasn’t doing exactly what Mrs P had said it would. Sure, the white stuff had gone but wiping it just seemed to leave an oily, greasy-type film behind.
After half an hour of simply smearing the oily substance around, I figured I’d need to come up with a Plan B. So I went to the servo down the road for coffee while I considered my options, none of which, I should point out, involved breaking the news to Mrs P.
Down at the servo, I bump into an angel in the queue.
I’ve known her for years. She runs a small cleaning company and, after hearing my tale of woe, said she would be happy to have a look for me next week when she’s able to fit me in.
Thanking her for the offer, I shake my head and explain our predicament and the time factor involved. Amazingly, she offers to have a quick look for me there and then. She might at least be able to point me in the right direction.
I figure the least I can do for such a generous offer is pay for her coffee. And so I do and before you know it we are standing there, sipping our coffees, staring at my shiny, greasy oven interior.
“What oven cleaner did you use?” Cleaning Angel asks me.
Thankfully I’d not thrown the rubbish out and was able to retrieve the orange canister from the bin and give it to her.
I’m sure at this stage Dear Reader you have a fairly good idea where this is going. And you’d be right.
It turns out the orange can I’d grabbed was, in fact, full of cooking oil. I’d not read the label and had simply sprayed the entire contents all over the inside of the oven.
To say Cleaning Angel thought it was funny would be an understatement. She roared with laughter so loud I’m surprised Mrs P didn’t hear it from her bed some kilometres away.
Naturally, while I accepted my mistake and the good-natured ribbing that went with it, it did not solve my problem. The oven needed to be cleaned and fast.
Again, Cleaning Angel came to the rescue.
She had another appointment she needed to get to but she would make a few calls and get someone round to do it for me. And that’s exactly what she did.
Within an hour one of her associates had turned up, giggled profusely at my mistake and then set about making the world right.
The exercise cost me the better part of $80 but I figured it was a small price to pay for making sure it was done properly and, more importantly, Mrs P didn’t find out.
And she didn’t. For a few days at least.
Until, that is, we were down at the supermarket and back in the carpark when around the corner came Cleaning Angel – honestly, I hadn’t seen her in ages and now I’ve seen her twice in a week - and Mrs P stops for a natter.
And so I leave them to it while I load up the car, hoping upon hope that my little secret isn’t revealed.
Three hours later nothing has been said. I’m sitting there thinking I’d got away with it when Mrs P says it’s time to make tea.
“How about your favourite chicken stir fry with vegetables and honey soy sauce?” she asks innocently.
I nod my head enthusiastically for a few seconds before she chops it off with one fell swoop.
“Well, tough luck. We’ve got no cooking oil left since you used it all up on the oven. It will have to be baked beans on toast.”
