My Fridge Is Cleaner Than Most Operating Theatres

I opened my fridge this morning and realised something rather disturbing.

It is cleaner than most people’s houses.

There are no mysterious containers lurking at the back. No vegetable quietly turning into soup in the crisper. No jar of something exotic that I bought in 2019 because one recipe required half a teaspoon of it.

Everything is clean, organised and facing the correct direction.

Because I’m OCD - and before anyone writes to tell me that isn’t funny, I know. But neither is lying awake at night wondering whether the butter container is sitting crooked.

My fridge doesn’t need cleaning. It needs a curator.

People could buy tickets to see it. They could shuffle through the kitchen in respectful silence while I point out the perfectly arranged dairy section and the condiments standing in height order. There would be a velvet rope across the vegetable crisper.

“No touching, please. That capsicum was polished this morning.”

The trouble with having a spotless fridge is that other people insist on using it.

They put things back wherever they like.

Wherever. They. Like.

My partner can take the milk from its clearly designated position and return it to another shelf as though we are living through the collapse of civilisation and rules no longer apply. He’ll put an uncovered plate inside. Sideways. Occasionally containing half a sausage.

Then he closes the door and casually walks away.

How?

How does he sleep at night?

I have considered installing security cameras. Not because I suspect anyone of stealing food, but because somebody moved the mustard last Tuesday and I want names.

I’d also like my fridge fitted with fingerprint recognition. If you haven’t completed the compulsory food-storage induction, the door remains locked. There will be a short examination covering shelf allocation, lid requirements and the correct orientation of yoghurt labels.

A score below 90 percent and you’re banned from the kitchen.

People say home is where the heart is. Nonsense.

Home is where everything has a proper place—and some lunatic keeps moving the bloody milk.