I took matters into my own hands during the recent power failures due to storms.
Frustrated that two very fine sirloins from Messrs Laveracks would go to waste mouldering in the defunct fridge, I decided that the house’s only form of heating -the open wood fire in the sitting room - would also have to act as makeshift hob. I got the frying pan on, put in a tiny spray of oil and shoved the steak in. The flambé effect due to spitting fat very nearly set fire to the wallpaper.
With the Missus away on business, I was hopping about, frightened that I would burn the bloody house down, and trying to extinguish the fat fire by blowing on it. It was the only thing I could think of in the emergency. Amazingly, it worked.
I ate my steaks by the fire. Albeit rather well done on the outside though a point on the inside. It was then that I realised that the sitting room was filled with a blue meaty smelling smoke, which also would fail to impress the Missus upon her return. So I had to have the window open for about an hour, during which I occupied myself by swishing about a copy of the Sunday Times to clear the steak fumes and after which I was hypothermic in the now icy room, and frankly in need of another steak. I had a smallish glass of wine instead. Then another. I was thinking about reaching for the Highland Park when I realised that alcohol in fact provides only a false sense of warmth to the hypothermic, and also that, sitting by an open fire, there was a distinct chance of spontaneous combustion.