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.
