There’s a mystery going on in my house. Not a cute, Scooby-Doo style mystery with a bloke in a mask and a talking dog – no, this is a far more serious, sanity-destroying kind of mystery. It’s one that haunts my kitchen daily.

WHERE THE FUCK ARE ALL THE FORKS?

Seriously. I buy cutlery like most people buy milk. I swear I’ve owned about 48 forks, 73 spoons, and an actual mountain of bowls. And yet every time I open the drawer, it’s tumbleweeds. One fork. Maybe a rogue butter knife if I’m lucky. If I want to serve up dinner for the whole family, someone’s getting a spork or one of those weird salad tongs we never use.

The Bedroom Black Hole

I know where they are. We all know where they are. They’re in the bedrooms. Somewhere. Lost in the abyss of teenage chaos – under beds, behind gaming chairs, stuffed into hoodies, maybe even fused to the actual carpet at this point. I’ve stopped asking them to bring things down because it turns into a full-blown crime scene investigation.

I ventured into the boys room the other day (bad idea, don’t recommend it) and found:

• Three forks
• Two bowls – one fossilised, one with what I think was cereal welded to the side
• Four cups in various stages of science experiment
• And, disturbingly, a teaspoon inside his Nike Air Max

A TEASPOON. IN A TRAINER.

What was it doing there? Is this some kind of secret teen ritual? A new TikTok trend I haven’t caught up with yet? Did the spoon offend him and need banishing? I didn’t ask. I just retrieved it, washed it (twice), and questioned every life choice that’s brought me to this point.

Bowls? What Bowls?

We used to have a lovely matching set of bowls. Pastel colours. Instagram-worthy. Now? We’re down to a weird mishmash of chipped, stained survivors that have seen things no crockery should ever see. I served someone cereal in a plastic mixing bowl last week and didn’t even blink. That’s where we’re at now.

I tried doing the “if you don’t bring them down, I’m not washing them” thing. Rookie mistake. Teenagers do not care. They will literally eat curry out of a mug with a fork and call it “vibes.” The only person who suffers is me.

Cups. Fucking cups.

If you’re ever in my kitchen and you can’t find a cup, check the bathroom. Or under a pile of towels. Or in a backpack that hasn’t seen the light of day since last term. I once found three glasses under a pile of socks and a half-eaten packet of Haribo. I don’t even want to know how long they’d been there, or why one of them had a spoon in it, either.

I keep buying new ones like a mug-based version of Sisyphus, only for them to disappear again like I’m starring in some sort of haunted IKEA spin-off.

Just Ask For A Bloody Fork

What really gets me is the way they’ll look genuinely confused when there’s no cutlery left. As if I’m the one who’s been sneaking around, chucking forks out the window for a laugh. “Muuuuum, there’s no clean spoons!”

Mate, that’s because five of them are lined up on your windowsill next to a mouldy Pot Noodle and your sweaty shin pads. Do I look like I have the energy to play hide and seek with household items?

Resigned to the Chaos

Honestly, I’ve given up. I’m just going to start putting AirTags on the forks and charging a deposit for the bowls. Maybe I’ll set up a rental system. 50p a cup. Forks require a refundable fiver. A small price to pay for the privilege of having one matching dinner set for more than a week.

Until then, you’ll find me rummaging through piles of laundry and threatening to serve Sunday dinner on paper plates with takeaway chopsticks because I AM DONE.