Gently the steam starts
to rise. Whisps silently meander upward and into the vacant high up reaches of
the room, a thin film of cloud forming overhead.
A minute passes, the
pressure steadily building.
That’s about when I
begin to hear it. A distant tinkle? Barely noticeable above the music, a poorly
fitted lid balancing precariously a few rooms away, for now it simply lingers
in my peripheral.
I delve deeper.
Bubbles start to form,
rising up toward the brim, the edge. Initially small and infrequent, they soon
begin to ripple the surface of the water. And so it goes on, the tinkle
intensifying, moving nearer, firmly within earshot now. The cloud above
thickens and slowly descends, engulfing its surroundings.
About half way, I know
from the number painted crudely on the tarmac below, and the pan is now boiling
profusely. The lid clatters and before long is all that is audible. The music
has faded deep in to the distance, left behind down the road.
The water is gone and
yet the heat stays on. The cloud stays low and the rattle intensifies with
every second. Eeking out its last great masterpiece.
And then through the
fog I see ‘Lap time 10:00’. That
sight I’ve been begging for.
I press the button and
it all starts to seep away. However like its’ steady build, it doesn't simply
all leave all at once. It thuds and clatters away at my head. And it’s not just
up there in that cavernous ceiling. My heart and lungs wheeze, thump and clunk
all the way back down the road, the last few moments of cooking on gas leaving
their mark.
Then finally, as I
come to a slow at the bottom, the music floods back in. And the lid? Precariously
placed yet perfectly still, it sits above the lowly shadow of the pan. Refilling,
a trickle at a time, before the heat turns back on merely four minutes later.