Rush Hour Crush

I got caught in the midst of rush hour on Thursday. The worst time of the day when you’re in London; crowded trains filled with business people or tourists. Everyone receives a fair amount of pushes, shoves and the occasional elbow to the rib. All in all, we just want to get home.

Somehow I got onto the tube in one piece. Holding a large shopping bag, wearing my backpack over my thick winter jacket and headphones in, a must, whilst listening to heavy metal to drown out the noises of crying babies and enthusiastic tourists. There I was, looking like a right sort. I was tapping my fingers on the pole to the beat of the music when I saw him. I must have been loud because he saw me tapping and smiled. He was standing about an arm’s length in front. But of course, having been rush hour meant that there were at least 3 people inbetween us – like the wall of Verona separating Romeo and Juliet.

He wore a charcoal grey suit jacket and an unbuttoned baby pink shirt. No tie – which I don’t blame because of the humidity. I couldn’t see his shoes but I presumed they were somewhat smart. He had an olive skin tone but it was his hair that had struck me the most. Locks of brown glossy hair, curly and remained at the scalp yet dead straight on the edges.

He got a seat after a herd of people got off at the train at Turnpike Lane, leaving me still standing. I thought it’d be a good idea to bluetooth him a picture of what I was listening to since he had cared enough to smile. He didn’t appear on the Airdrop list. To my unfortune, nothing came up with his image and instead I accidently sent the image to ‘Danielle’s iphone’ – boy I bet she was confused. A few stops went by and the seat next to him became available. A message from the heavens. This was my chance. I sat beside him and took off my headphones and adjusted my hair using the help of my reflection in the window opposite. He smelled strongly of a freshly applied JPG – a smell which was fairly familiar to me.

The remainder of the journey was a quiet one. We both left the train at the same stop via a different set of double doors. He smiled again when I turned to look around for him. Is he just polite or playing with my feelings?

The train jolted to a stop. I ran out through the doors and up the escalators to catch my next bus in time. This was it. Time for the love of my life to run up behind me and ask for my number so we could stay up all night and talk on the phone. Tonight was the premiered night of many that we’d spend together and live to have a life of four children and live in a country home and own the biggest farm. Tonight –

“Excuse me?”

I stop. Eyes wide open in shock. Heart pounding against my chest. Legs turn to jelly. My prayers just keep on getting answered today. The angels are by my side.

That’s when my farce o’clock struck. I turned around to find it wasn’t him. It wasn’t him at all. I knew who this person was though. He sat diagonal to me on the train I had just been on. Gym bag, jogging bottoms, baggy t-shirt, expensive trainers and wearing AirPods. He was probably one of those exercise people – oh no – a personal trainer. He’s not going to ask if I needed any help did he?

“Yes?”

“Would you mind if I had your phone number?”

I politely declined and walked away, still searching for my twilight tube man. He was gone and so was my bus ride home.

Why I don’t belong in a kitchen.

Although my guilty pleasure is watching mukbangs on Youtube or bingeing on the Food Network channel on a Saturday night, it doesn’t take a genius to figure out that I cannot cook. The only times you’ll find me in the kitchen is raiding the fridge in the middle of the night on the hunt for sapid snacks.

According to Lorraine Pascale, “anything that goes in the oven is baking”, so with that being said, I took on the challenge of my first ever bake. No, not just some basic oven lasagne- I mean a real bake, a cake.

After a simple google search for the best yet easiest carrot cake recipes, I finally found one which was fit for me even though I just didn’t have a lot of the ingredients on that list and so, I switched things up a little:

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175g light muscavado sugar = 200g brown sugar (I don’t know what muscavado means)

140g grated carrot = an awful lot of hard work

100g raisins = NONE because who enjoys raisins in a cake?

1tsp bicarbonate of soda= 1tsp baking powder (I’m not technical in anyway)

1tsp cinnamon = 2tbs cinnamon to celebrate my Sri Lankan heritage

Everything else remains the same.

As I was doing this, I began to reminisce a song from my childhood. Stephanie from Lazytown sang “You gotta do the cooking by the book, you know you can’t be lazy; never use a messy recipe, the cake will end up crazy”. Well, I do hope Stephanie grew to her senses because adapting a recipe to my own needs DOES NOT make me lazy, and I definitely will not stick to the recipe because I am not a conforming individual and Stephanie should really just get out of my head and stop telling me what to do. Anyway, I digress. 

People often say that baking is easy since you whack everything into a bowl and it’s done. That is easier said than done. My sister peered inside my mixing bowl and said “You’re mixture’s split”. Since I didn’t know what that meant and I’ve done five more laps around the planet than her and have collected ever so much wisdom, I ignored her snarky comment and carried on. Nigella Lawson taught me how to grease my pan and lightly dust it with flour to stop the batter from sticking. So I did, less stylishly and more maddened than Lawson as by this point I realised why it had taken me 18 years to finally have the reason to use an oven. I don’t belong in the kitchen or have any interest in being in one. Long story short; I dusted the finished product in icing sugar (to cover the burnt bits) and presented a bog-standard looking carrot cake to my family.

CONCLUDING THOUGHTS: The perception of women having to “belong in a kitchen” died long ago, though there will always be people hinting about the concept to this day. I truly believe that in order to abolish this, all women must take their own fields of interest and exceed at it by taking full control. It doesn’t take a genius to say that I’m awful at cooking but only a fool will tell me that I am an awful woman because I cannot cook. I wish to exert my energy into passions of mine and stand down from the stereotypes that I have been labelled.