Divorce by Barbecue

Now, there’s nothing strange in this, you may say. Lots of men approach their sheds in summer for a multitude of reasons: a) to look at the lawnmower (I can’t use it yet, it needs serviced), b) to check the condition of the paint brushes (their bristles are loose. I need new ones) or c) simply to hide from their mother-in-law. However, with the benefit of experience, I knew that the love of my life would soon return from the murky depths of the shed with The Barbecue.

Now, I’m not a huge fan of barbecued food. However, my ex was completely enamoured with this form of culinary torture and, as I watched, the barbecue was carried into the sunlight with a reverence rarely seen outside of a religious festival. The accumulation of winter dust was gently removed from the hulk of metal, the lid lifted and closed several times. Yes, everything was in perfect working order.

The barbecue was carried to the patio and placed at a precise angle between the pergola and the arbour. Hubby then disappeared into the house. Several seconds later, he reappeared. Well, I say he but it was more a hybrid that now stood upon the patio - a cross between Gordon Ramsay and Lily Savage. Yes, hubby had donned the necessary attire for barbecuing: one novelty apron (complete with fake boobs), a chef’s hat which slowly drooped (how appropriate…) and a pair of chequered oven gloves.

For several hours, smoke billowed from the general direction of the patio and drifted slowly over the fence onto our neighbours’ pristine white wash. Suddenly, there was a deafening thud. The sausages had hit the rack.

“Won’t be long now!” hubby threatened as he emerged momentarily from the smoke cloud. I smiled, as I contemplated the benefits of vegetarianism…

And then, with a little help from hubby’s ‘secret ingredient’, the barbecue leapt into life. Sparks flew in every conceivable direction, and I watched in horror as the clematis that I had lovingly trained around the pergola disappeared in a ball of flame. More sparks, delicate as thistledown, floated into the arbour and, with the grace of a Russian ballet, the flame consumed the delicate cane work. And then the fence began to smoulder ponderously…

I dialled 999 and, being naturally optimistic, I let my thoughts dwell on the fact that in a few short minutes the garden would be overrun by several tanned, fit, muscle-bound firemen.

I stood, eagerly awaiting their arrival. The fire engine screamed to a halt and disgorged its occupants…and there on the pavement stood not the cast of London’s Burning but Camberwick Green. Yes, Trumpton’s finest had arrived.

Nevertheless, these brave men sprang into action. But as they rounded the end of the house they came to an abrupt halt. My gaze followed theirs - Gordon Savage was leaping around the rockery beating several flaming rhododendron bushes to death with a fish slice. The firemen glanced speculatively in my direction. I smiled sweetly and, being consummate professionals, they turned their attention to the fence.

As the water hit the blazing fence it lost the will to live and promptly collapsed. The jet of water (its freedom gained) found a new target - our neighbours and their once-pristine white wash.

Silence descended upon the garden. Our neighbours stood dazed and sodden, Mrs Neighbour looking like Hyacinth Bucket in a wet t-shirt competition, while the cast of Camberwick Green continued to hold a limp but dripping hose.

Meanwhile, Gordon Savage stood in the rockery. Covered in soot, a sheepish smile adorned his face as his chef’s hat drooped over one eye. One plastic boob hung punctured and deflated, the other had melted with the heat and now clung to the apron looking like a burnt fried egg.

Enter teenage stepson number two, still attired in what could loosely be termed ‘pyjamas’. Ambling over to the charred remains of the sausages, he slowly lifted ‘breakfast’ to his lips, his eyes gradually adjusting to that most unnatural of things - daylight. And suddenly his brain began to function - albeit slowly. Glancing around the garden at the scene of total devastation he uttered those immortal words: “I thought there was a hosepipe ban…?”

©Ruth Ainley