Long term readers may remember the tear-stained post I wrote when my beloved 1970s orange-and-chocolate-brown Kenwood Chef died in the line of duty. That was in October 2008. Grays of George Street, that venerable Edinburgh institution is no more and I didn't know of anywhere else I could go for help with a disabled Chef. Despite this, I kept his body in the garage. I just couldn't bring myself to throw Kenwood away.
This morning however, I came downstairs to a (tuneless) chorus of Happy Birthday from Husband and Boys and look what was waiting for me!
They pimped my Chef! Kenwood had been smuggled out of the house (apparently I actually helped with this operation in the mistaken belief that Husband was taking an amplifier into his office. If you knew Husband, you would completely understand why I accepted this ruse without question) and then sent off to the Hospital for Geriatric Kenwood Chefs where they gave him a brand spanking new motor, a groovy new control knob, new rubber feet and all sorts of wonderful new attachments (not the sausage stuffing one though - I may have to wait until Christmas before I get that). He lives! He even has a pulse (function)!
Isn't he lovely? I suddenly feel the urge to make bread. Or drink tea and eat chocolate while admiring him. One or the other.