Any child of the seventies will recall the phenomenon that was Soda Stream. Trendy households boasted this device, complete with a collection of glass drink bottles, tubs of syrupy condensed cordial and pressurised canisters to use with tap water. At least I think that’s how it worked. You filled a bottle with ordinary water, inserted it into the machine, pulled a lever which noisily carbonated the water, then added your chosen flavour to produce a bottle of fizzy drink.
I preferred my coca-cola without the fizz (I still do), and was delighted to find the Soda Stream setup at any of my babysit jobs (yup, I began babysitting at 12, an age I’m ironically asked to babysit for now), as I could use the ‘cola flavour’ syrup with tap water to create a still coco-cola drink in a quicker and far more pleasant way than my usual pouring-and-leaving-to-go-flat-and-gather-flies. But one evening, after watching one of Soda Stream’s ‘get busy with the fizzy’ ads, I thought I’d be super-cool and rustle myself up a bottle of pop.
I had been shown the soda stream by the parents of the family before they went out, but declined the demonstration, not wishing to appear to come from a household that didn’t have one. But how hard could it be? I selected something like Fuzzy Peach flavour, inserted the glass bottle into position with the nozzle inside, and pulled the lever.
The pressure was unbelievable – I think I might have pulled more times than was needed – and the glass bottle shot at lightning speed downwards and across the tiled kitchen floor before exploding into smithereens. I spent the next three hours sweeping, vacuuming and mopping, absolutley terrified 1. of the household toddler finding one of the many glass slivers I’d no doubt missed, and 2. of explaining to the parents what I’d done. They came home and laughed, “Oh, we’ve all done that”, but I’m not convinced. I’ve never met anyone else as utterly terrified of glass bottles of fizz.
To this day, much as I love Prosecco, I’ll go to extraordinary lengths to avoid having to uncork a bottle. When I worked as a West End theatre manager in the nineties, it was frequently my role to entertain VIP guests, and I developed a habit of promising the nearest usher a glass after the interval if he’d open the Bolly for me. Unbelievably, when I was entertaining Mel Gibson and family in the royal box, I couldn’t catch the eye of a single usher, and was vastly relieved when the Gibsons opted for ice creams instead.
My teetotal housemate is bemused by my occasionally wandering into his lounge with a sheepish look and a sealed bottle, but is happy to oblige. If I ever have to do the deed myself, I’m still too afraid to take the risk indoors, and open the back door whatever the weather, so I can safely aim both ends of the bottle – that soda stream bottle flew DOWN, so that’s just as scary as the cork – and my neighbours are now used to the sound of a cork bouncing off our corrugated iron garage roof.
Whilst house-sitting in a very nice villa over Christmas, I brought my presents to open on the day and unwrapped a delightful bottle of sparkling rose. COVID resrictions meant I was on my own for the evening with nothing but Rose for company, but how could I possibly risk opening this potential bomb inside a luxury villa? The skylight above…the glass display cabinets all around, the plush carpets underfoot…..I reverted to my old trick and opened the back door – only to discover a shiny red Porsche parked just outside. On balance, I decided to wait til the new year before uncorking.
Many say that the sound of a champagne cork popping is one of their favourites – it’s extra special for me if it’s not followed by pandemonium.
Cheers!
