See that kettle over there in the corner of the computer room? I'm not watching it. I don't care if it's boiling or not. It's up to the kettle. It can do it in its own time, if it chooses to do it at all.
I lean over to take a floppy disk out of the disk drive. I can nearly see the kettle from that angle, but I'm not looking. I look at the disk until I go cross-eyed. As my eyes go out of focus, I realise that I can see the edge of the kettle, but I can't tell whether it's boiling.
Is that steam, or just blurred vision? I'm not looking. I'm not checking. I'll find out soon enough.
I suddenly wonder if I should go downstairs and check the, er, see if there's a, um ... post! That's right, see if there's any post. So I get up and nonchalantly walk past the kettle, not looking at it. I even whistle, to show the kettle that I'm not bothered at all, uh-huh, not a bit, do I look like the kind of girl who'd be interested in boiling?
I wonder if the kettle will regard the whistling as some sort of hint. Do kettles have some kind of race memory of the time when they whistled? You can buy whistling kettles now: très retro, très kitsch.
For a moment there I almost stopped thinking about whether or not the kettle was boiling.
There isn't any post. I walk back upstairs, and my eye falls on the kettle as I walk into the room. I didn't look at it, at least not deliberately, I was just so unbothered about the whole boiling thing that I forgot not to look at it.
It's not boiling.
I miss him so much.