James
Humming to myself, I spoon hot oil over hissing, spitting potatoes and parsnips, then open the oven door to slide the dish back in. A towel around each hand I ease the dish in above the roast resting on the bottom shelf.
Somewhere in the background, a phone rings.
Damn…
The heat is already penetrating the towels and I slap the door closed then blow on glowing fingers.
The phone is still ringing…
Mobile?
No, landline…
I step smartly through to the lounge. As I reach the phone, it subsides into silence.
They’ll ring back if it was important…
And from somewhere, my mobile goes off.
Mobile…
I swing around…
Where’d I put the damn thing?
The ringing is from beyond the door. Following the tone I track it, locate it back in the kitchen and wrap fingers around just as it clicks
