Kitchen didn’t take kindly to hosting my son’s party

Spectators brave the blustery weather at the P1 Grand Prix of the Sea
Spectators brave the blustery weather at the P1 Grand Prix of the Sea
Royal Marines and sailors from HMS Bulwark Royal Marines squadron gathered on Eastney Beachin June 2016 for a poignant commemoration of the loss of landing craft during the 1982 Falklands Conflict

LETTER OF THE DAY: Hole in our armed forces budget needs closing

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I had a kitchen versus cook moment – and the kitchen won.

Some may argue that a kitchen doesn’t have a personality and can’t be involved in such nonsense. But I’m telling you, a lot depends on the emotions of my kitchen.

It felt deep and the blood was gushing with the intensity of a Vegas fountain

Whether a recipe comes out well, a cake is baked to perfection or even a party succeeds, it’s all about the mood of the heart of the house.

That’s how I knew my kitchen was suffering. It utilised the nastiest weapon in its arsenal – the can-opener – to express its anger.

It wasn’t as if I was even trying to open something interesting, organic or even wholesome. It was hot dogs bought for my son’s birthday party which he didn’t use as he and his friends decided to fill themselves with beer instead.

I’d been at the neighbour’s merrily drinking beer (do as I say, not as I do) while this was happening, and that’s why the room decided to take revenge. Some kitchens just don’t take to being bedecked as an ’80s nightclub.

It waited until the next day to bite back. After the clean-up.

In all fairness, my son had done a pretty good job, going hell for leather with a mop before crawling back to bed. But then I have different standards to my son. I tackled his clean-up with my own sore head a few hours later.

After all that scrubbing (I even found a puddle of sick beneath the vacuum cleaner), I came across unopened cans of hot dogs stacked behind empty bottles.

Ah, lunch, I thought. And it was then that the kitchen took its revenge with can-opener failure, the slip of a hand, the slice of a finger and the shock of spraying blood.

The minor injuries staff at Gosport War Memorial Hospital were, as ever, brilliant. It felt deep and the blood was gushing with the intensity of a Vegas fountain. But it simply needed a Steri Strip to stave off more blood loss and, obviously, imminent death.

Maybe it was my kitchen, maybe it was my hangover, maybe it was one of a 100 other pathways which the universe took that led me to the gigantic finger slice.

But whichever it was, I know one thing for sure. The party season at my house is over for another 10 years.#


Gosport hosted the P1 Grand Prix of the Sea last weekend, which offered a chance to sit on the beach and watch powerboats having fun.

But I confess that I find shore-based viewing of watersports quite trying as I’m never really sure what’s going on.

It’s like the America’s Cup last year – lots of excitement from the commentator, but lots of people sitting around desperately trying to participate but being slightly lost as to the happenings in the distance.

Never mind, the British are very good at sitting patiently, watching before clapping when deemed appropriate.

At least the grand prix brings a stage, complete with a free mini-festival atmosphere, which is the best bit.

Long live music, I say.


The new studio spaces in the historic arches in Old Portsmouth are very cool.

For those who didn’t know (have you had your heads buried in the nearby shingle?), the arches have been zooped up and glassed in and are now home to an eclectic mix of artists and crafters, plus a café.

There are embroiderers, tapestry weavers, Turkish marblers, natural diers and so many more.

I think it’s a super development and the people there are ultra-friendly, sharing their knowledge and skills, happily talking visitors through their crafts.

I reckon it will pretty soon become one of the go-to places for presents at all times of the year, with a variety of quirky gifts from quirky people.