Heavy handed

One of my friends was extolling the virtues of a Le Creuset frying pan as a weapon against erring husbands the other day. Not that she’d actually tried it, I hasten to add, but the thought had occurred to her a couple of times when the provocation was particularly strong.

I can see what she means. There’s really no messing with those pans. Bash someone over the head with one and you’d leave a dent the size of the Thames, or possibly hammer them into the ground like a scene from Tom & Jerry. In my case, though, it wouldn’t work, because I simply can’t lift the things. At all. Even empty, let alone full of bacon and eggs.

Me, mid-screaming-row-with-other-half: “Hang on a mo, don’t move.”

Other half, baffled: “What?”

Me: “Don’t move, stay right where you…” puffing “…are.”

Other half, slightly alarmed: “Are you okay? You look a bit red.”

Me, puffing more: “Of course I’m red you idiot, I’m trying to lift this.”

Other half: “Why didn’t you say so? Here, let me.”

Me, relinquishing pan with reluctance: “Okay, thanks.”

Other half: “Now, what did you want to do with it?”

Me: “Well, you just stand there and bash yourself over the head with it, because I’m not strong enough to manage.”

Um, yeah. Perhaps I should stick to the rolling pin instead.

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