Cling – to hold tightly, be emotionally over-dependent, refuse to let go
This is a reworked post from February 2009
I'm a reasonably independent woman, not often prone to temperamental outbursts. I have reached a point in my life where I am content with my lot. I am fortunate that I am physically strong (though currently keeping company with sciatica) and enjoy good health. I want for nothing, other than that which avarice dreams of. Even so, I know that material possessions and riches do not bring happiness. I love the members of my family and I think they love me. We embrace affectionately, support each other emotionally and respect each other's privacy. Why then, given these parameters, can I not cope with clingfilm?
Other people efficiently manage to encase widely differing objects; jugs of stock are staunchly refused permission to spill, cakes are neatly parcelled and hermetically sealed, the onions of winter salads resolutely try but fail to send their fumes beyond the plastic. Portions of fruit and slices of vegetables, roast chicken carcasses and too-generous casseroles all consign themselves to the constraints of this thin clear self-adhering plastic material.
They do all this until I try to marshal them. To be more precise it is not the contents that prove problematic but the clingfilm. Does it recognise in me a person who secretly longs to be enfolded in strong arms and held close till, breathless with passion, I beg for release? Well, of course not, but I have to distract myself with idle thoughts as I wrestle with the wretched wrapping that clings to itself and to me as if scared to let go. I mutter and curse as the film tightens and thickens and eventually manage to reduce it to a sulky pellet which I would love to hurl into the rubbish bin but cannot as it still seems loath to leave me.
Thus, the contents of my fridge are left unwrapped, tainted with onion and curry, the chicken carcasses dry out to firewood consistency, the lemon halves shrink to husks, the cabbages wilt and everything that was once fresh and crisp limps into unappetising decrepitude.
I look enviously into others’ fridges, at the tidy array of dishes and pots stacked carefully on each other, courtesy of clingfilm, and decide that I really must try again to master it, to no avail. I have wasted more yards of the dreadful stuff than is good for my temper. There are not many things that defeat me but clingfilm is one of them.
There must be a knack to it but if there is I certainly have not acquired it and sadly, I fear I never shall.