You would think that the word to use in this instance rather than eventual would be delayed. It’s a charming thought, one I may or may not have had myself (of course I did, I’m not entirely simple. I had this idea at an earlier point in time I don’t feel like disclosing at this particular moment and then proceeded to forget about it completely. So I wrote something else beginning with d and went on to feel a little bit foolish when I rediscovered my previous beginnings of ramblings) but let’s break with convention shall we? Just the once. I promise I won’t tell anyone. Come with me as I journey a few days into the past.
I want to put the oven on. I’ve been cooking. It’s something of a rarity for me (though I rather wish it wasn’t. Probably not enough to do anything too strenuous about it. Of course I want to be viewed as some sort of domestic goddess who can be relied upon to produce beautiful warming stews, soups and delicious casseroles. The rare sort of woman who keeps a stunningly spotless home tastefully decorated with scented candles and tiny cushions. Nothing’s too much trouble, there are leftovers for you snack on while the cookies finish baking. It sounds like a lot of hassle though).
But now it’s all slightly sadly down to my judgement. If I put the oven on too early then my culinary masterpiece might get burnt or be soggy or something. But if I wait too long then the meal won’t be ready in time and that would be an utter catastrophe. Oh it’s so difficult, a weighty decision that will most surely crush me into a truly disgusting pancake if I get it wrong. It’s very hard being a grown up, don’t you know?