Never am I so creative as when it comes to finding something to do instead of what I really should be doing. There’s nothing like a looming deadline to spark some crackpot ideas. So it was that something I’d read somewhere on the internet came back to me. A tip on cleaning wooden spoons. I’d come across it in the middle of a sleepless night when, contrary to the advice of sleep experts, I’d resorted in desperation to doomscrolling. Being quite attached to my wooden spoons, I resolved to do as suggested, a prospect so soothing that I was soon drifting off thinking happy spoon-cleaning thoughts. Honestly, whatever works.
And now it all came back to me. Stuff the deadline, I’m going to do the spoon stuff straight away. I gathered my entire stock of wooden spoons – 15 in total. As directed, I put them in my largest pot, filled it with cold water, and watched it come to a pleasing boil. Now, my spoon husbandry is second to none: after each use I vigorously scrub them before sticking them in the dishwasher. So I was looking forward to giving them a clean bill of health. Before long, as the bubbles rose to a boil, some unidentified bits and pieces began floating to the surface. Disappointing, worrying, intriguing. The instructions were to take the pot off the heat once the water had boiled and come back to it 20 minutes later.
Invigorated by the excitement of the whole caper, I used the time to get my proper work done and meet the deadline, so I could be free to enjoy the great reveal. And my word, was it worth the wait, if not in a good way. The bits and pieces were now many and floating around like plankton, unable to rise or sink. The water itself was a strange and ghastly yellow-green, topped by a foul, greasy film. I peered into the murk, fascinated and repelled. It seemed that at least one molecule of everything I’d ever stirred had come back to haunt me. I fear I’ll never feel the same way about my wooden spoons again.
• Adrian Chiles is a Guardian columnist
