Gadgets: The Great Escape

GADGETS

The Great Escape

David Hancock

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2011 David Hancock

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Cover design: Kabir Khan

CHAPTER ONE

THE CHIPS ARE DOWN

Deep Fat was on the top shelf of the kitchen cupboard. He was unhappy again…

He had once been the pride of the worktop but all that was now in the past and Deep Fat had been confined in the cupboard as a reject for more than three months. He was bitterly sad at the fate that had befallen him and remembered well the day when his usefulness appeared over. That day had started with such high hopes. He had looked out through his viewing window and noticed that Mrs. Abercrombie was putting on a pair of Marigold gloves. ‘Oh there’s going to be a bit of cleaning done today, good,’ thought the fryer. ‘It’s about time. Please, please let it be me. My oil hasn’t been changed for months.’

Mrs. Abercrombie moved towards the worktop and to Deep Fat’s joy lifted him up. ‘Oh this is filthy,’ she muttered, noting the dirty congealed oil that was clinging to the outside of the electric fryer. Then she noticed the anti-odour filter in the top of the machine had changed colour through overuse and the first thing she did was unscrew the protective top and throw away the dirty filter. Deep Fat couldn’t have been happier. ‘At last, at last,’ he kept thinking to himself.

The next thing for Mrs. Abercrombie to do was to remove the inner basket, which could be tilted for easy draining due to Deep Fat’s sophisticated design, and then pour out all the dirty dark brown oil that filled up half of the bowl. It was a messy, greasy job and Mrs. Abercrombie was worried at first whether or not to pour the old oil down the sink. Seeing no alternative she did anyway. Using plenty of kitchen towel she mopped up the remaining deposits of oil from the bottom of the bowl and then washed the bowl with hot water until the inside gleamed its silver colour again. Next she popped the basket in the dishwasher and got to work with a special cleaning rod to clean out the oil drainage tube which Mrs. Abercrombie found more difficult than she had anticipated due to the thick globs of congealed oil in the tube. When she was satisfied it was clean she examined the condensation tray at the back of the fryer and then used soapy water on the outside of the machine for a sparkling nearly-new look. Mrs. Abercrombie stood back, admiring her work. ‘That’s better,’ she muttered. ‘Much better.’

‘Much better,’ thought Deep Fat. ‘It’s nothing short of a miracle!’ It was the first time Deep Fat had been so thoroughly cleaned since he had been bought two years earlier at the out-of-town discount store. Usually it had been out with the old oil – in with the new. But this was something else. He was beaming, even his temperature light had had the dirty oil cleaned from it and now was a bright red jewel. He couldn’t wait to be plugged in again. Deep Fat’s mind started to wander as he wondered what kind of oil he would be filled up with.

He preferred sunflower to ordinary vegetable and had always dreamed of being an olive oil man. But he knew that would never happen because it didn’t make the best chips and let’s face it that was all he was really used for. Anything would do though because it would be clean and fresh and Deep Fat could once more live up to his reputation as a top-quality Sango DS 178. As Mrs. Abercrombie turned Deep Fat this way and that, admiring her work and wiping down parts of the fryer here and there it seemed there was contentment on the worktop.

The whole operation had been watched with the usual indifference that came naturally to both the gleaming chrome Kettle and the Toaster who for years had regarded themselves as the king and queen of the worktop. ‘I see old Deep Fat is getting a make-over,’ the Kettle whistled quietly to the Toaster.

‘About time too, dowdy old thing. All that dirty fat clinging to him. It’s unhealthy and so is the service he provides. All those chips he cooks it’s not good for you. I don’t know why the Abercrombie’s got him in the first place.’

‘Don’t bitch on, you’ve always been a bit jealous of him because he has a bigger footprint than you on the worktop. I like him now he’s looking clean, I could do with a bit of de-scaling myself,’ the Kettle said quietly.

Deep Fat sat there in his pristine splendour waiting for the new oil to be poured into him. The dishwasher cycle finished and Mrs. Abercrombie pulled out the shiny clean basket and fitted it perfectly into the aluminium bowl. ‘Well don’t we look a pair,’ thought Deep Fat. Then a fresh anti-odour filter was popped into the lid of the fryer. ‘Now for the oil,’ smiled Deep Fat. ‘Which one will it be? Eeny.. meeny…’ He was so happy.

But no oil was forthcoming. Instead Mrs. Abercrombie wrapped the lead and plug around Deep Fat’s body shell and before the fryer even knew what was happening, opened one of the kitchen cupboards and lifted him up and plonked him right on the top of the highest shelf. ‘That’s better,’ mumbled Mrs. Abercrombie. ‘I don’t think we need that old thing. Now I’ve got more workspace.’

The chrome Kettle and Toaster were open-mouthed at what they had seen. ‘Did you see that?’ whistled the Kettle quietly.

‘Of course I did,’ replied the Toaster with a smirk from his two top grill openings. ‘And about time too. Banished from the worktop and up on the highest shelf of the cupboard where he belongs. He was dirty and smelly and had no place down here with us. There are too many gadgets in this kitchen as it is, if you ask me. At least now we’ll get a bit more room.’

‘Do you think he’ll ever come back?’

‘Come back,’ said the Toaster with exasperation. ‘Of course he’ll never come back. He’s up on the top shelf. He’s finished, he’s a reject. Best thing for him now is to go on an Internet auction site and try and find a new worktop.

‘Well I feel sorry for old Deep Fat. I know you never liked him but he kept himself to himself. And I don’t think it’s looking good. This could be the beginning of a completely new spring clean and heaven knows what could happen next, we could be up on the top shelf ourselves before all this is over.’

‘You worry too much, that’s your problem. They would never get rid of us. You are tea and I am toast. We are absolutely irreplaceable. We are the top dogs round here. Every kitchen worktop in the world has a kettle and a toaster. Deep fat fryers, umph, they were just a flash in the pan. Now they are yesterday’s thing. We rule this worktop. That’s the way it has always been and that’s the way it is going to stay, mark my words. You get too steamed up, that’s your problem Kettle.’

And it seemed like Toaster was right. Three months after Deep Fat had found himself consigned to the top shelf, Kettle and Toaster were still on the worktop their chrome shells gleaming as wonderfully as ever. At the time of his incarceration Deep Fat had tried to put a brave face on things. He expected to be back down on the worktop in no time, but as the days went by he realised it might not happen as soon as he wished. Then he had a dreadful thought. ‘What if they are planning to put me on an Internet auction site. I’ll never live it down. Branded forever as a second-hand fryer. It’s not worth thinking about.’ But that didn’t seem to be happening either and eventually Deep Fat started to despair of his situation. He cursed oven chips. Slowly their recipe had been improving and their fat content dropping. The fact they were ludicrously priced for a piece of potato homogenised with sunflower oil seemed to be overlooked by the millions of mums who bought them for their kids. How disgusting to mix in the oil with the potato,’ moaned Deep Fat, rattling the basket inside his bowl. ‘Give me a Maris Piper any day, nice and thickly cut, the correct temperature setting of 190C and I will turn out a potato chip fit for a king.’ Then he started cursing the Abercrombies. What fools they had been. Here was a top-of-the-range Sango DS 178 and all they used it for was making chips. Didn’t they know that at 160C he could fry squid, scampi and sole or turn it up another 10C and there was perfect chicken cutlets or sardines, aubergines or courgettes. And how about deep-fried mushrooms or artichokes at only 150C. But no, all he had ever been expected to make was chips. At first Deep Fat wallowed in self-pity. He would waste time thinking of reasons why he should be on the new granite worktop. ‘I belong there, I deserve it,’ he would mumble to himself over and over. ‘I have never failed in my duty to provide food for this family, and this is how they treat me…this is how they treat me.’

After the self-pity he became morose and after that he became lonely. He had never liked the conceited Toaster and didn’t have much time for Kettle but at least they had been there with him. Occasionally he would nod good day to the juicer or sniff in the aroma of the coffee machine and he always had a sneaking admiration for the honed and toned lines of the lean, mean, grilling machine. But now he was all on his own in the darkness on the top shelf of the kitchen cupboard. How was he going to get out of this one? He had no idea. The days and nights blended effortlessly into one. Now and again the cupboard door would open and Deep Fat would try and attract attention by rattling his basket as furiously as he could. ‘I’m up here,’ he was trying to shout. ‘I’m up here.’ But it was no good. It was just one of the Abercrombies getting crockery or plastic containers from the lower shelves. No one even seemed to look up at him. And then the cupboard door would be banged shut again.

That had been going on for three months, three months of despair. And then one day the cupboard door opened and an object came hurtling through the air. It hadn’t even been placed, but had been thrown up on to the top shelf. And it struck Deep Fat on the outer shell causing a zinging noise as it bounced off. ‘Steady on. What’s going on here,’ cried Deep Fat, thinking he was under attack. ‘Wow my shell’s scratched.’ Then the cupboard door banged shut again and everything was plunged back into darkness. ‘Who’s there?’ said Deep Fat. ‘I know someone’s there. Name yourself… Come on, who are you?’

‘Deep Fat, is that you Deep Fat? I’d know that bass voice anywhere. It is you isn’t it Deep Fat?’

‘So what if it is, I’m the one that’s asking the questions. Who are you, throwing yourself around like that? You’ve scratched me you know, scratched my outer shell.

‘Sorry, but it wasn’t my fault believe me. I was chucked in here against my will… But don’t you recognise my voice. It’s me… it’s Blade… Blade the electric knife.’

Blade, the electric knife, was a Bay Long Advanced Design Electric knife BL6693b made by the prestigious Bay Long company at their factory in Taiwan. It was manufactured from quality material and enjoyed an enviable reputation. With two sets of serrated twin blades, one for meat and one for bread, that pulsated at high speed for a steady even slice it is considered by many to be best in class. Ergonomic and balanced it had a locking blade switch on the handle, a mighty three metres of power cord complete with cord wrap, and a safety button to make changing the blades simplicity itself. But best of all it came with a perfectly matching top-of-the range carving fork, all of which fitted neatly into an elegantly designed wood block to grace the finest of worktops.

Deep Fat had rarely seen Blade out of his wood block unless he was carving, and he had never seen Blade without his partner Forque. It was simply unheard of, they were the premier couple of the worktop. Forque would always be there by Blade’s side, deeply imbedded into the joint of meat, holding it steady as a rock as the high-speed knife cut away slicing as thinly or as thickly as was needed but always perfectly even.

They were a tour-de-force as a couple. And Forque was astonishingly beautiful, fabulously designed and well-balanced to hold.

‘Blade is that really you?’ said Deep Fat with astonishment. ‘What are you doing out of your block, and where’s Forque?’

‘It’s me OK, Deep Fat,’ mumbled Blade, sounding crest-fallen. ‘It’s me all right. Sorry about scratching you on the way in here, but there was nothing I could do about it. That Abercrombie guy threw me in here in a real rage. I wish I could see you, it’s so dark in here.’

‘I know I’ve been in here for months I think. I can’t tell any more whether it’s day or night. You just have to get used to it. I don’t know why I’m even here. Something to do with the oven chips I think, but I can’t be certain. Do you know why you’re here Blade and why isn’t Forque with you?’

‘It’s a long story Deep.’

‘Well it looks like we’ve got plenty of time so why don’t you tell me all about it.’

Blade launched into his story with exasperation written all over his face. He was spluttering with indignity and Deep Fat had to tell him to calm down. It was earlier that Sunday morning and Blade opened his eyes to see a bright sun rising and glinting off his tungsten carbide blades. He stretched and flexed the blades a little. ‘Ah it’s going to be a lovely day,’ he said to himself. ’I love Sundays because there’s a guaranteed roast dinner and Forque and I can show off our skills to the household.’

With a warm smile on his face Blade glanced over to his beautiful girlfriend intent on blowing her an early morning kiss. Then his face dropped, the smile faded and a look of bewilderment took over. Forque wasn’t in her slot in the wood block! Panic started to set in. She’d never leave the block without him, it was unheard of, they were a couple. There must be some explanation. Maybe one of the Abercrombies had lifted her out earlier in the morning, maybe they wanted to use her for something different. It had never happened before but it was a possibility, thought Blade. But Forque was the quintessential carving fork, they would never employ her for anything else. She had never been used for so much as picking up a cooked vegetable. Blade started to worry.

As the morning wore on Blade’s anxiety deepened. He was pinning his hopes on one of the Abercrombie’s having used Forque and then left her lying around and forgotten to slot her back in the wood block. The minutes dragged by till lunch time and he knew she would have to be back by then to help carve the roast.

In desperation Blade cried out to Toaster: ‘Toaster, you haven’t seen Forque this morning have you?’

‘What, lost your little girlfriend… ahh?’ came back the sarcastic reply. ‘Perhaps she’s run off with someone a little smarter than a once-a-week no-brain piece of steel. And I wouldn’t blame her. She’s a nice looking girl, not my type of course. Made in Taiwan weren’t you, well I prefer a home-grown English beauty myself…’ and he droned on and on.

‘Oh forget it Toaster I don’t know why I bothered to ask you. I’m sure she’ll turn up in time for lunch.’

But Blade wasn’t that sure and there were nagging doubts at the back of his mind.

‘Hey Kettle,’ he whispered to the more sympathetic chrome dome. ‘Did Forque pass you by at any time this morning?’

‘Hello Blade, we haven’t chatted for ages. No I haven’t seen Forque at all. I only ever see her with you. Don’t tell me the poor girl is missing. How terrible. Never mind I’m sure she’ll turn up with a simple explanation. Don’t worry so much young knife everything will be all right you see.’

Blade hoped it would be but he still had his doubts. Blade was a young knife in love and he had sworn to himself to protect and look after his girlfriend as best he could. He worried about her, cared about, and loved her more than any other fork in the world. When she was left with a piece of meat on the end of one of her prongs he would lovingly take it off and kiss her. He adored the way she curved and that incredible balance she had. Although she was shy and had never confessed her true feelings for Blade he knew deep down that she was fond of him too. Maybe her love wasn’t as strong as his but now and again he saw beyond her demure feelings and believed he glimpsed the part of her heart that was for him.

And that was why anxiety was building inside Blade. He instinctively knew something was wrong.

The morning dragged by slower than any Sunday morning Blade had ever known. The kitchen was full of activity, aromas wafting from the cooker, but Blade was lost in his own world. Then Mr. Abercrombie said: ‘OK kids, everybody at the table, I’ll just carve this joint,’ as he set about his usual Sunday ritual of slicing the meat on to a beautiful large white oval porcelain plate. He reached out to the wood block and grabbed Blade, clicked the power cord into place and put the plug in the socket on the wall. As he was about to flick the switch on the socket he instinctively went to pick the carving fork out of it’s slot.

‘Darling,’ he shouted to his wife. ‘The carving fork is missing. Do you know where it is?’

‘It should be in the wood block where it always is.’

‘Well it isn’t there.’

‘Then look in one of the drawers.’

‘I’m looking…can’t find it anywhere,’ he shouted to his wife. Damn, he thought, I’ll just have to use an ordinary fork.

Blade took in everything that was happening and knew that what was coming next was going to be tricky. It was the first time he had ever attempted to pull off carving a perfect Sunday roast without Forque by his side. Mr. Abercrombie might not know it but Blade knew that an ordinary fork was worse than useless with a state-of-the-art electric knife. Abercrombie powered up Blade, Blade prayed as he started to buzz. The twin spinning serrated edges where brought down slowly on to the top of the meat while Blade held as steady as he could….And then pandemonium. The fork wasn’t strong enough to hold the meat firmly in place and as the meat moved backwards Blade skidded and gashed Mr. Abercombie’s thumb.

Blood spurted all over the meat. Abercrombie yelled: ‘Bloody hell I’ve sliced my thumb,’ as he threw down the knife and darted to the sink and turned on the cold water tap. ‘Damn, damn, bloody thing,’ he mumbled. ‘I could have cut my whole thumb off.’ Thick red blood was swirling down the sink along with the water as