Every time I buy a new baking tray I always promise myself that I will care for it fastidiously. That its shiny face will be the only face I'll ever see. That my food will only ever rest on brushed chrome as it sizzles and bakes in the oven. A symbiotic relationship of man and metal; of sustenance and cleanliness. I will keep it in order while it keeps me alive.

Over weeks and months my initial enthusiasm wanes and the washing up sometimes just has to wait, with my chrome-faced child now crying and blemished in the bowl...waiting for its parent to lovingly dab a saliva-smeared hanky across its mug. Yearning simply for closeness and the knowledge that someone cares for it. Instead I sit and watch TeeVee with my responsibilities out of sight and out of mind.

Over months my neglect begins to show. The corners start to brown, some stains and smears remain as stubborn as my scrubbing does lacking. Our relationship is now bonded in servitude and resentment as it blackens and rots. Some days I fear that if I were to destroy the now-hideous implement, the blackness forced upon it would return to my soul and strike me dead...a contorted corpse on the kitchen lino, awaiting a page 7 epitaph stating simply "it was 4 months before he was discovered".

How fragile are our promises. How weak are our resolutions. How empty are our hearts. How great are our failures.

Still... £1.99 at Tesco will relieve me of this burden, and for another few weeks I can once more kid myself that this time I will care for it. Fastidiously.