Projectile Chicken

Yesterday my urge to cook skyrocketed out of proportion and took over every fiber of my being (ok mild exaggeration), so I invited a few friends over for dinner and planned a rather elaborate menu starting with salad and pasta, cruising onto roast chicken with several kinds of potatoes and ending with an experimental cheesecake (which despite the story I am about to relate turned out quite a success).
So I rushed home from the shops, oiled up the twin chickens and stuck them in the oven. After bringing everything to 'just ready to cook' point, I rushed upstairs, threw myself into the shower and ran back down to the kitchen (after throwing on some clothes of course) was just beginning to the feel like a chicken with its head cut off when the oven exploded and a chicken with its head cut off flew out hitting the roof like some bizarre, aromatic projectile and landing in a tragic, pathetic and I must add slightly vulgar position on my kitchen floor.
In shock and awe I dropped the gravy boat in my hand painfully on my foot (which now instead of smelling like peaches as my moisturizer promised would smell of garlic and mushrooms). Losing my one footed balance I reached out to steady myself and hit a large pan of mashed potatoes hand first only to send it catapulting across the counter where it immediately flung its contents onto my 'just ready to be put in the fridge' cheesecake.
I wheeled around in horror to see the edge of my sleeve on fire. Taking a step away from the stove that was attempting to burn me like some manner of modern day witch I stepped on the tragic, pathetic and vulgar not to mention slippery chicken, losing my footing and landing solidly on my arse looking up at a perfectly chicken shaped oil mark on my ceiling.

Thank God there was extra chicken and cheescake filling in the fridge safe from the mayhem that raged in the kitchen.