Operation Thaw

My fridge smells like a dead cat. I have debated this symptom with friends, hijacking an otherwise pleasant lunch, and many helpful and not so helpful suggestion later, plan A seemed to be the way to go. Buy soda bi-carb and leave in it the fridge, as rumour has that it will absorbs nasty smells. I feel a calming sense of domestic goddess steal over me. Unfortunately, that was the day we inflicted Quantum of Solace on ourselves, and the crushing disappointment of that endeavour completely distracted me from my mission to acquire said soda bi-carb. So, plan B: never open the fridge again. Worked shockingly well for a week. Had another round of discussions, this time in Amsterdam with workmates (I hate wallowing alone!), and given that I'd just extended my lease for another year, and I'm hungry all the time, how easy it was and the moral support they were willing to provide (work from home with boss on call!) plan C was strongly advocated. It'll only take a couple of hours....Friday the 7th was the anointed day, but I had to go into work for a bit, and my native wisdom suggested that it was unwise to commence any water related operation the same day of departure. But, I did do the groundwork - shortlisting suitable containers for overflow duty, confirming that none of the visible plugs in the kitchen are connected to the damn thing, and that an attempt to dislodge it from it's resting place results in severe resistance. Plan C: Operation Thaw. Return from New York, assault the fuse box and render the offending white good unconscious.
Back in smelly London, with the kitchen floor festooned in fuchsia (you know, i don't even try.. it just types itself!!) and roasting tin in place, I ruthlessly flip the switch on the fuse box, and head for bed in a pre-emptive strike against jet lag (in case you were wondering, it is now 2.51 am). Sleep is elusive, eye mask absconding (it is doubtful I ever had one), it's too warm and the stress of dripping water distinctly non-soporific. My steely backbone prevails and I strip and burrow deeper under the covers. It works, the world outside is dark. But then, it usually is at 5pm. A couple of hours my ass. I have been electricity free since 10am, and all I have to show for it is a delicately glistening sheen on what I presume is the catchment tray. Right. Enough of this bullshit. Jeans, screwdriver, fluffy slippers, rubber gloves, and I'm ready to roll.
I now know what the pointy screwdriver head is for. A cleverly disguised if somewhat ineffectual icepick. Suddenly, this promises to be fun, but my glee at gouging is somewhat compromised by a sound reminiscent of a breaking iceberg. This can't be good. I proceed with caution. Two saucepans of ice and I'm no longer amused. Fucking fridge. Just how much ice can one pathetic sized freezer create? Bringing the candle to close singes the ice. Not what I was expecting. OK, so physics was never my best subject, but isn't heat supposed to melt ice and not burn the damn thing? I have visitors, so have to turn the lights back on. Damned if I'm going to let the fucking fridge claw back into the game. Fortified by Makaibari's best, I bring on the hair dryer - time it was used for more than Sarolta's tresses. Full blast complemented by vicious jabs. The freezer is clean, but ice still clings outside it like an annoying ex-lover you can't get rid of.
Jayal offers to take over, and DDM and I book tickets for the tennis masters. Uh-oh, she's bored. Three quarters of a roasting tin of ice water. Hah! Amateur. I take up the slack, and suddenly, a block of ice the size of Madagascar makes itself visible. Jesus "$%$£"$ Christ! A few violent tugs and it stays stoically in place. I feel like Lady Macbeth. I zap it with my blaster (you have a better way to picture this Jabba??), and yank brutally (no wonder my rotator cuff isn't getting any better). Fuck. Madagascar is welded around some internal wiring. Fucking primitive technology. Fucking English. Just Fuck!! (my mother is not going to be pleased with this post, but Mother, you have NEVER defrosted a fridge!). I invoke Buddha, add more sugar to my tea and keep my Wa. I am determined. I zone out Jayal's not very helpful tittering and set the blaster to incinerate. Ten minutes, and that iceberg is toast. Yes it's pathological, the lying. It's an iceberg still worthy of the Titanic, but it's now taken up residence in the roasting tin, as we gather around to gawp, marvel and take photos. This is why I hate physics. How is it possible for something this size to occupy what can only be a fraction of it's size behind the freezer compartment? 3.29 am, and the ex-formidable berg in my sink is the size of the Shetland's. The fucking fridge is still the same size. I am beginning to believe in vampires and werewolves. Another 15 minutes, and the last vestige of ice has been eliminated. Operation Thaw is now officially over.
A new beginning: Pinot Gris (Hugel 2004), Sauterne (Madame de Rayne 2000), orange juice, boursin, Ardennes paté, fruit yogurts, halloumi, asparagus, Lincolnshire sausages. Tuesday, I start shopping for Friday's desi dinner for Walker and his girls. Plan D: if that dead cat is still in there come Thursday, move house.