Deborah Ross
TRULY, I am a disgrace. A total disgrace, even. I mean, there I was, pottering about, getting on with nothing in particular, when I suddenly thought, 'Hang on, isn't today the day I file for The Spectator?' I'd completely forgotten! I think if I wasn't me I'd hate me. On second thoughts, I think that I hate me even though I am me. I am even minded to wait for myself on the corner so that, when I next go out to post a letter or something, I can give myself a good going-over. In fact, that's what I'm going to do. Right now. Nope. Just been out and waited a while but I didn't come. I'll try again later.
Anyway, I phoned The Spectator, apologising furiously, saying I couldn't really account for it beyond the fact that I have a terrifyingly low IQ. No one contradicted me, which was nice. Although I don't blame them, frankly. I once did one of those IQ tests you need to take to get into an American university, and it came back with 'Is this a person or an omelette?' scrawled across it. Thankfully, I got a place through clearing at the LSC. The LSC has never been particularly bothered about IQ scores. Mostly, you just have to show a passion for your subject, and, as I turned up for the second interview wearing a courgette-print dress with matching scarf, shoes and handbag, I think they knew I was serious. (The Italian label, Zuke Eenie, do an excellent courgette range, by the way.) Now, where are we? Oh yes, I was still on the phone to The Spectator, thinking what I could go and do NOW, when someone there happened to say that their sister-in-law's second cousin twice removed's neighbour but one has a bread-making machine, which is brilliant, because 'every morning she comes down to the most wonderful smell of chocolate bread'. And I thought, yes, I like the sound of that. I will get a bread-making machine. I will bake my own bread. I will become an earth mother. Hah! Am I totally bonkers or what? I mean, I am to earth motherhood what Ann Widdecombe is to a high-impact aerobics class, followed by pump'n'spin with Jeff, then a mad dash to get home for Sex in the City, Still, I want one, and once I decide I want something I just have to have it. I am hopelessly childish and self-indulgent in this respect. (When I heard Zuke Eenie were bringing out a bed-linen range, I put in my order for a double duvet cover, four Oxford pillowcases and a valance without even seeing them!) Plus, isn't shopbought bread such a terrible disappointment these days? Even if you get it from the bakers rather than the supermarket, it's got the texture of polystyrene and is made with all sorts of ghastly stuff, like 'soya flour' and 'maize flour' and 'emulsified this' and 'emulsified that' and 'flavour enhancers', which aren't especially effective as it's almost impossible to detect any flavour, enhanced or not.
So, into the car and off to John Lewis at Brent Cross. (Yes, I did look out for myself on the way, so that, if I saw me, I could get out and give myself that going-over, but, luckily for me, I wasn't to be seen anywhere.) No, I didn't read Which? beforehand. Lord, kill me if I ever even think of subscribing to Which?. Because, whatever next? Actually understanding endowment policies and explaining them to people at parties? And I didn't shop around, either. I don't believe in shopping around. It's just so vulgar.
But you can't just go into the electricalappliance department at John Lewis and come out with what you want, can you? An assistant has to get it for you from the stockroom. And the assistants are always busy, aren't they? 'Excuse me?' you say. 'Can't you see I'm with someone?' they say. In the end, you have to pick one out and practically stalk him or her. You know, hang about by their elbow while they're dealing with the other customer, so that, when they're free, you can grab them. Mine was explaining the differences between various electric shavers to a woman who took such an age to make up her mind that when she finally did, and the assistant went to get it from the stockroom, I told her that if she changed her mind I would have no choice but to punch her in the face. I think she got my point because, when the assistant returned, she grabbed the shaver, bolted to the till and got out before you could say, Ann, lift those knees up! There's no point in coming unless you are going to try.'
I buy the Panasonic SD-206 at £129, mostly because it's the most expensive. Tell me, why go for the cheap option when there is an expensive one?
When I get home, my partner is fantastically impressed by my Panasonic SD-206, and wonders if it's going to end up in the cellar along with the steamer, Magimix, espresso machine, lime zester, electric garlic press and all the other stuff I can't be bothered to use once the novelty has worn off. He points to our oven and says, 'Isn't that a bread-making machine?' Honestly, isn't he the most unfun, mean-minded man in the world? Can't he see how brilliant making our own bread is going to be? And how economical? I could sell it even. I could go into business. He could retire. 'How long does each loaf take?' he asks. 'Four to five hours,' I reply. 'Great,' he says. 'Two loaves a day at 30p each — that's 60p a day."Ah, but?' says my friend Louisa, who has popped in, and is on my side because she knows that if she isn't I'll get her, after I've got myself. 'A decent loaf costs about 90p these days.' Oh great; f1.80,' he says. T11 book that Caribbean cruise now, shall I?' I think I rather regret playing the economy card.
The Panasonic, which looks like a big plastic box, is actually dead simple to use, and comes with the most brilliantly comprehensive instruction book, which even tells you how to deal with your loaf once it is baked. 'Homemade bread can be cut with a bread knife,' it says. 'Place the loaf on its side and cut with a sawing motion.' And I thought you were meant to head it into the garden, kick it around the rhododendrons, and then balance it on your nose before karate-chopping it! No, seriously, it is truly easy. You just bung in all the ingredients (in this instance, yeast, flour, sugar, butter and water, for a basic white loaf), turn it on, and that's it, until four hours later, when there's a 'beep, beep' and you open it up and — blow me! — there is a LOAF OF BREAD IN THERE. It's miraculous. It's stupendous. I've never seen anything like it! I've made bread! I have. I have. I have. And it's absa-bloody-lutely delicious, too. Crusty on the outside, but all soft and squidu on the inside, just how it should be. Even Mr Mean-Minded-No-Fun is won over. 'This is jolly nice,' he admits.
In fact, my bread turned out so well I am sorely tempted to forgive myself and not beat myself up, after all. Yes, I know, I still need to learn my lesson, but I could just give myself a bit of a shove, couldn't I? Just to give me a fright? That's what I'll do. Nope. Just been out and there is still no sign of me. try again later.
The Panasonic Automatic Bread Maker SD206 (£129) is available from most electrical outlets and John Lewis, if you can find someone to serve you. I'll be back in a fortnight, unless I forget, in which case I won't.
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