Gently the steam starts to rise. Whisps silently meander upward and into the vacant high up reaches of the room, a thin film of cloud forming overhead.

A minute passes, the pressure steadily building.

That’s about when I begin to hear it. A distant tinkle? Barely noticeable above the music, a poorly fitted lid balancing precariously a few rooms away, for now it simply lingers in my peripheral.

I delve deeper.

Bubbles start to form, rising up toward the brim, the edge. Initially small and infrequent, they soon begin to ripple the surface of the water. And so it goes on, the tinkle intensifying, moving nearer, firmly within earshot now. The cloud above thickens and slowly descends, engulfing its surroundings.

About half way, I know from the number painted crudely on the tarmac below, and the pan is now boiling profusely. The lid clatters and before long is all that is audible. The music has faded deep in to the distance, left behind down the road.  

The water is gone and yet the heat stays on. The cloud stays low and the rattle intensifies with every second. Eeking out its last great masterpiece.

And then through the fog I see ‘Lap time 10:00’. That sight I’ve been begging for.

I press the button and it all starts to seep away. However like its’ steady build, it doesn't simply all leave all at once. It thuds and clatters away at my head. And it’s not just up there in that cavernous ceiling. My heart and lungs wheeze, thump and clunk all the way back down the road, the last few moments of cooking on gas leaving their mark.

Then finally, as I come to a slow at the bottom, the music floods back in. And the lid? Precariously placed yet perfectly still, it sits above the lowly shadow of the pan. Refilling, a trickle at a time, before the heat turns back on merely four minutes later.