Saturday, January 24, 2009


I am a dead pan. I was not always dead. But then one day she sent me flying across the living room and fortunately for him, I hit the wall and not his cranium. 

Now the kitchen shelf has always resembled a half dead graveyard, with each one of us holding on to our dear lives. 

Let me take you back a few years, when I was shiny and new like all the pans in the world. I was good at my work, the eggs were evenly fried and would slip off my silky skin with a ballerina's grace, the colourful sauces would bubble and spurt with glee and aroma, and I never needed any scrubbing. Just a lemony soak with gentle fingers caressing me every morning. How I smiled in my sunny corner, hanging on the brown hook, water dripping down my spine in a rhythmic pitter-patter. 

But then the sun wasn't sunny enough, and the water smelt of underground sewer, her hands became a tough hide and my dark skin suffered under rotting oil muck. Like all the spoons and a few plates, the yellow bowls and the long dead knife, I awaited my fate.

And today she took me by my sturdy wooden handle and threw me with the force of a hurricane into the abyss of my afterlife. With a clang and two clonks I saw my spirit bade goodbye. It was happy while I was now a utensil -- a dead pan waiting for the rest of us to join me in my solitude.