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I am not an unreasonable woman. Most of the time.

This is a tale of my tin opener and me.

We have coexisted peacefully, working together in harmony, for over 7 years. It lives, very happily, with one leg in and one leg out, in the jar which contains assorted wooden spoons, spatulas and General Kitchen Paraphernalia.  Crucially, this pot is in between the sink and the oven, by the workspace I use most when cooking.  This is an important fact which I need you to remember.


It’s not fancy, it’s not complicated, it opens tins – in fact, my grandmother had one just like it. It’s got a nifty hook at the end to open bottles of beer. What more can you ask for from a couple of pieces of hinged metal?

When The Other Half moved in, major negotiations took place over my tin opener.

He wanted to replace it with a big evil scary Man Tin Opener that I couldn’t work. It looks a bit like this, except that The Other Half only dresses like that on high days and holidays: Image

The tin opener is the one without the tashe, just in case you were wondering.

But then, I argued, I do 85% of the cooking.  Ish.  Maybe 90%. He makes awesome scrambled eggs, and fish pie, which last time I checked you don’t need a tin opener for, and amazing tomato sauce, which you do. So therefore my choice of tin opener should prevail.

I stuck it firmly back in the pot. I figured I’d made enough concessions to a boy moving in without getting rid of a major principle. I cleared a drawer for him and everything.  

He has kept hold of his Man Tin Opener. This is because mine is unfathomable to him. And then I get cross because I think he might break it. So I won’t let him use it.

But this is a problem. I won’t have the Man Tin Opener in my pot. It gets in the way and takes up too much valuable wooden spoon space. And seeing as how I won’t use it, it lives in the cutlery drawer, where it gets stuck whenever I need something like an apple corer and have to rootle through the many and various useful bits that I use at least twice a year.

But in the orderly world of The Other Half’s mind, this means that my tin opener should go in the same drawer.

This is wrong.

We cannot agree, and perhaps we should have counselling.

So now my tin opener leads a travelling life. When I wash up, it goes in the pot, and harmony reigns. This is the way Life Should Be. It is there to help and assist as I open tins and then use them in cooking.

Until The Other Half washes up, or spots it and puts it in the cutlery drawer. This is the other side of the kitchen.  The drawer on the other side that inevitably whoever is over for coffee, a chat, or The Other Half himself is leaning against whilst I cook and we chat.

So I find myself on a hunt through the cutlery drawer right at the very moment I should be adding tomatoes to sauces or sweetcorn to chowder. In fact, it may have been a lack of tin opener within reach which led to the great culinary disaster the other night.

My tin opener is doomed to an itinerant existence, forever criss and crossing the kitchen, never knowing what its true home is. This is obviously the way Life Shouldn’t Be.  

It lives in the pot. It lives in the pot. It lives in the pot.

I have made another salvo in the War of the Tin Opener by blogging about it. Tomorrow I’ll probably want it and it’ll be in the garden shed. Then battle really will commence.