Your jaw drops, about hits the floor. In shock, springing upright, the tender top of your head does KRACK the underside of a badly placed wall sconce. The stars suddenly come out, spiraling, like it’s the Beginning of…Everything. Comets, too. And unidentifiable falling objects: they hardly at all resemble strange somethings the American military might hide away in the black desert mountains of Nevada; objects, instead, that resemble…books, fluttering before your blurry eyes, like birds, and the porcelain figurine of a cat, a smiling cat, that might have just eaten a trout, and might live atop a wall sconce, perhaps.
Nigella, your beloved, her lovely and concerned-seeming frowny face is the last detail you are unsure about.
A KLIK behind your eyes clears up things. You’re suddenly ringside at the Cookery Fight Finals. A wrestling ring…only it’s a square: four padded corner posts, padded ropes, the square pale mat, and the lights turned down. Stark light drops a circle in the center of the mat. A tuxedoed slim man, in red runners, strides center-ring. He’s David Tennant…in about one year’s time. A microphone dangles before him. He’s probably the most enthusiastic Cookery Fight Finals announcer there’s ever been:
“Oh’yea! Oh’yea! Oh’yesss! Ladies and Gents, the Main Event!”
Cheers from the unseen crowd you find yourself, also unseen, sitting among.
“In this corner. She’s busy. She’s got kids. She marinades teeny tiny squidies in clear plastic bags overnight. In the Wonder Woman outfit. Nigella…The Midnight Snacker…Lawson!”
The crowd roars approval. None louder than you, you’re sure. And now your head aches, like you’ve cracked it on something you cannot recall.
“And in this corner…”
Crowd quietens, listening.
“She’s as lovely. Especially her lisp. She has a tv show – and a following. Wearing the oversized man’s shirt, flattering dark capris, and death-defyingly tall pumps. Delia…Cooking With Water…Smith!”
More crowd roaring.
Davie Tennant, swinging his attention left and right, his arms outstretched toward both unseen corners, and crouching, like a tiger ready to spring aside, says it – even as he begins to spring – “Cooks! Fight! –“