Anyway, I am prepared to overlook the cover photo because yesterday evening, with Himself Malarkey away at the Birmingham Pet Show, I needed to use the oven to cook myself a spot of dinner. And because I am a foolish woman I thought it would be a simple case of turn on the 'On' switch to the required temperature and....well, I refer you to the good old days of cooking.
But I did not have time for this. Strictly Come Dancing was approaching, my beetroot, quinoa and mint burger needed baking. I needed an oven that heated to a temperature of 190 degrees celsius.
Reader, I left it on the pizza setting. I was pressing buttons. Information was appearing on the little screen - I was reading the oven, for heaven's sake! I opened the door, thought, 'That feels about right', shoved in my burger on a non-recommended, non-Neff baking tray, wandered off, wandered back about 10-15 minutes later, poked the burger, thought, 'That feels about right,' and pressed the computer off switch and everything fell blissfully dark and silent in oven world. And I went to watch Strictly with my burger and assorted salady stuff and all was ticketty boo.
Oh, I suppose I may come to love it once I grow to understand it. It's a bit like having a new baby, I suppose. Totally incomprehensible, makes bizarre noises, sometimes you just can't do anything right, and then whatever you do it'll behave how it wants anyway. I just need to absorb the instruction manual (if I can be arsed), experiment a bit and then offer it bribery in the form of sweets, cheap plastic tat and the complete boxed set of Peppa Pig.
Without the limes and onions.