Cling – to hold tightly, be emotionally over-dependent, refuse to let go
The following piece is based on something I wrote 11 years ago.
I don’t use cling film, that thin clear self-adhering plastic material – I gather it’s one of those things that is frowned upon these days. I have tried to use it in the past, but generally without success, for when I did, I could never rid myself of the thought that cling film had got it in for me, recognising an enemy it could easily defeat.
Perhaps it recognised in me a person who secretly longed to be enfolded in strong arms and held close till, breathless with passion, I begged for release? Well, I think not.
Maybe it was the kitchen equivalent of the playground bully, teasing and taunting me as I wrestled with it. Possibly it was a lonely thing, the wretched wrapping clinging to itself and to me as if scared to let go.
Whatever the motivation of this inanimate matter, I muttered and cursed as the film tightened and thickened, eventually managing to reduce it to a sulky pellet which I wanted to hurl into the rubbish bin but could not as it still seemed loath to leave me.
Thus, the contents of my fridge were left unwrapped, tainted with onion and curry, the chicken carcasses dried out to firewood consistency, the lemon halves shrunk to husks, the cabbages wilted, and everything that was once fresh and crisp drooping into unappetising decrepitude.
Did I hear malicious laughter from the drawer the cling film lived in, or did it plead to be allowed just one more chance? Too late, cling film was no longer welcome in my home.