Last updated 10:18, Friday, 06 June 2008

FORGIVE me if this column is a bit rushed this week, but I’ve got a lot of housework to do.

Mrs Hextol has been awayfor the week, leaving me to fend for myself in Hextol Towers while she swans around the Isle of Wight with Centurion Travel.

It was only for a few days, most of which were spent at work, but I was under strict instructions “not to make a mess” during her five-day absence.

Being the careful sort of chap I am, I tip-toed round the house like the Sugar Plum Fairy, sitting on the floor in the living room rather than risking de-plumping the cushions.

I’ve made the bed every morning, copying Mrs Hextol’s brisk and economical pulling, tucking and shuggying to the letter.

It still looked as though it had just been vacated by Smellie Ibbotson, while a Mrs Hextol bed appears fresh from a showroom window.

I’ve done the Hoovering, but I can guarantee dust will descend with a dramatic ‘woomph’ before Mrs Hextol returns.

She’d left me enough crisply ironed white shirts for a fortnight, so there was no need to resort to the coloured shirts which cause such a stir when I wear them to work.

“Is Mrs Hextol ill?” they’ll inquire anxiously, and start looking up recipes for chicken soup to nurture her back to health.

Why my shirts are of such interest to my fellow workers I have no idea.

I am a trained observer of more than 40 years’ standing, and I wouldn’t have a clue about what any of them was wearing that day, let alone the week before.

Were I ever to witness a bank robbery or hold-up, I would be easy meat for my learned friend for the defence when the case came to court.

“And what do you say my client was dressed in?” he would ask, thumbs in gown, while I would be desperately trying to remember whether he was wearing ladies’ tights, a balaclava helmet or an Ena Sharples hairnet.

The only danger area was the kitchen, where I faced the prospect of cooking for myself.

The range of my culinary skills is limited – indeed, my only resemblance to any of the celebrated TV chefs is looking like the Two Fat Ladies rolled into one.

There were ready meals ready in the freezer, but I had vowed to fend for myself, with fresh food cooked by my own two hands.

On day one it was an omelette – better known as flat egg in our house – which I have to say was delicious.

On day two, I found a piece of steak right at the back of the fridge, and slapped it in the frying pan with a chopped monster onion with great confidence.

Two new potatoes hacked into scallops went in to the deep fat fryer, and I was away.

Two thirds of the meal was a success, but the steak left much to be desired.

As I chewed fruitlessly away, I began to be assailed by doubts that this was not meat for human consumption, but something Mrs Hextol had put aside for the dog, and most of it went into the bin.

I decided to play safe with a couple of burgers from out of the freezer the next night, but again things did not go well.

Outside, they were blacker than Hitler’s heart, while inside they remained as icebound as a Murmansk woolly mammoth. Again, the bin consumed more than I did.

Thursday night was a triumph, it must be said, as I dipped an entire packet of pig’s liver into the frying pan for a couple of nano-seconds per side, and wolfed the lot with a barrowload of chips, the blood dribbling off the end of my chin.

As I waddled to the dishwasher with my licked clean plate, I took my first close look at the cooker of the week, and realised it wasn’t the same colour as it had been when Mrs Hextol left.

The sparkling stainless steel had assumed a dull aspect, which a wipe with my finger confirmed was congealed lard from my frying efforts.

I got the dish cloth to give it a clean, but my efforts only served to spread it over previously pristine surfaces.

It took half a hour’s elbow grease and a full kitchen roll to make it remotely presentable, and I can already feel Mrs Hextol’s disapproval wafting across the Solent.