It forked out a lot of knives to be a knife this fork, not to mention all of the spooning in between. But as you may have drawn from my addressing of it as a fork, it still didn’t quite feel like a knife.

How does one feel like a knife inside? I do not know.

Perhaps it is a sharp pain in your stomach, perhaps it is a metallic taste in your mouth. I do not know.

And neither did the fork which was a knife at the time. But still a fork.

And so after much forking and spooning and even the odd knife in between the knife/fork became a fork again spoon…err i mean SOON, soon – Before discovering it’s passion for spoons.

Around a year ago I came in from a night out, a tad intoxicated. In my kitchen I looked around me and I wanted to be productive, as was clearly the sensible thing to do at 4am. And I suppose I was; I ended up writing a collection of micro-stories about the collection of items in my kitchen. I was looking through that notepad today and I decided I’d let them see the light of air, as nonsensical as they may be.

That’s the second-to-last story, so if you’re not suitably offended by this stage there is one more Kitchen soliloquy left to show you. Same place – Tomorrow.