Like a dutiful wife tending to her invalid husband (pun intended), I opened the fridge to get a glass of juice that my mother had made for him this morning. The juice was in a tall jug with a lid that you only need to lift up, to open. Easy peasy. I got a tall glass from the kitchen, took out the jug and tried to prise the lid open. It would not open. Try as I might but it refused to open.
I put the glass on the top of the fridge (yes, I'm taller than my fridge; by many inches). Now I try to prise the lid open with one hand as I hold the jug in the other hand. I cannot hold it too tight, you realize, for the lid might open and spill the contents. I am very careful that way. Struggle as I might, the stubborn red contraption that holds the juice in the long transparent jar will not budge.
A few minutes later, plenty of variations of the f-word run through my head, as I look for ways to get the liquid out without spilling it contents or mutilating the jug. I can not say those aloud for fear of ticking off the husband who, by the way, is still waiting for his glass of juice. Patiently, I dare say.
Finally, I manage it. Don't ask me how, I cannot remember now. I was almost delirious with joy when I got it open. The liquid was not so much liquid after all. It was thick. Like gravy. 'Carrot juice, hmmph', I muttered and proceeded to pour the juice into the glass.
Now, let me explain that I am a really careful person. I would hate to spill things on the floor, so if I even had the slightest idea that what I'm pouring out of a container could spill, I would be standing over the sink making the transfer. I do that with tea in the mornings. On the rare occasions that I pour tea from the tea-pot to the cup, I mean.
The juice was like thick gravy, so I stood there with the jug and poured it into the glass, over the fridge. The next thing I know, a hug blob of almost-solid 'juice' dropped into the glass, liquid juice came rushing out, filled the glass, overflowed onto the top of the fridge, flowed down into the pockets of the fridge cover, rushed down the front of the door of the fridge, over my hundreds of fridge magnets, on to the floor. Splash! I'm standing there stunned, a glass full of juice in one hand and a jug with barely any juice in the other and plenty of juice all over the dining room.
My husband cannot stop laughing. Yeah, you think it is funny to? Grrrr. As I glare at him, all he can say is, "You should be happy I am not angry and yelling at you right now". Beat that!
I am not even sure where to start cleaning. I went over to the wash-basin to wet a piece of cloth. There's juice in my hair too. How did that happen? Oh well! I hate carrot juice, I hate carrot juice! How is it the fault of the carrot juice, you're thinking. Well, if it had not created the appearance of being semi-solid in the first place, I would not have tried to pour it into the glass in the dining room. Makes sense?
Mum walked in, calling out to me, as I was cleaning up. She demands to know what happened. I told her I had spilled carrot juice and explained how it happened. She gives me an incredulous look and says, "It is not carrot, it is melon". Thank you, that explains everything.
