As with every good trip, disaster has to strike somewhere. This time, it was about as close to home as you can get, the garage (though luckily it wasn’t car related).

I’d not closed the freezer properly and there was a meltdown going on. On opening the door I was confronted with a frozen wall of ice which would have put the Rjukan to shame and I had the growing feeling of having to let R know about this pretty quickly.

This wasn’t ideal as like a white goods palaeontologist R had already defrosted the grumbling monolith on her day off the week before.

The thought of having to re-discover the Jurrasic era jam rolly polly, decant and then re-store wasn’t helping. Some of this food had been in the family for generations, the Viennetta was practically an heirloom (now giant compared to its modern cousins).

The fridge of Fukushima was a downer on my zen when I was trying to get ready for a TVR-based evening, but I had to break the news, work out when we’d sort it and head out as quickly as possible.

Time was ticking down, and I was going to lose the light if I didn’t leave in good time and head to D’s house.

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