I passed the speaking exam. I still forgot “kettle”.

There were four of us in the waiting room. One person was reading a page of vocabulary. Another had closed their eyes. I was pretending to check the time on my phone, which is a lovely way of checking the same time eleven times.

My notebook was in my bag. I knew exactly where: between a water bottle and a banana I had brought as if I were leaving on an expedition. I had spent the previous evening preparing opinions about recycling. Quite strong opinions, considering how little I had thought about recycling before Tuesday.

Then my name was called.

The kitchen appliance that left the country

The first questions were ordinary enough. Where did I live? What did I like about it? I said something about the neighbourhood, remembered to breathe and began to suspect I might survive.

Then we got onto mornings. I started describing mine: get up, open the curtains, go into the kitchen, put the…

Nothing.

I could see it. White. Slightly scratched. Next to the toaster. I could remember the noise it made. I could apparently remember its entire emotional history. Its name, however, was unavailable.

“The…” I said again, with the confidence of someone hoping the word might turn up if given a second invitation.

The examiner waited. I looked at a perfectly innocent patch of wall.

Then I said, “I can’t remember the word. The thing you boil water in. I switch that on first, because I’m not much use before tea.”

It was a remarkably long route to a kettle. But it got me back to my morning, and I carried on.

I gave myself the result on the pavement

Outside, I took this selfie and sent a message: “Finished. Forgot the name of an object I use every day. Excellent work.” Then I bought a pastry. I felt the situation called for layers of butter.

By the time I got home, I had replayed the kettle pause so often that it seemed to have occupied most of the exam. There had also been a question I answered quite happily and a moment when I explained why I liked walking to places. Those bits barely got a look-in.

I decided I had failed. This was very efficient of me: no results, no marking, just a pavement and an opinion.

When the result arrived later, I had passed. I read it twice, then put the kettle on. We had some things to discuss.

The bit I actually changed afterwards

I don’t know how that one pause affected my result. I never saw a little box saying “kettle incident: forgiven”. Passing didn’t make every sentence I had said correct, either.

But I remembered the moment I found another way to say it. I had been waiting for the exact word, as though the whole conversation needed its permission to continue. Describing the thing gave me a next sentence.

So I added a small game to my practice. I picked an ordinary object and explained it without using its name. A key became “the small metal thing you use to open a door”. A receipt became “the paper they give you after you pay”. My descriptions were occasionally ridiculous. Useful, though.

I also stopped rehearsing only the smooth version of an answer. Sometimes I deliberately left a word out and tried to finish the thought. Sometimes I asked my practice partner to ask me an unexpected follow-up. That was much more awkward than reading my notebook. It gave me something specific to work on.

Have a go before the next kettle incident

1. Pick an object near you. Explain what it does without saying its name.
2. Answer one everyday question aloud: “What do you usually do in the morning?” will do.
3. If a word disappears, try “I mean the thing you use to…” and finish the thought.
4. Afterwards, look up the missing word and say the sentence once more. Give it a proper ending.

These are ways to rehearse getting unstuck. They won’t tell you how a particular exam is marked; check its own preparation materials for that. And if the exercise feels difficult, choose a simpler object. We don’t need to start with a corkscrew.

I still forget words. Occasionally very ordinary ones. These days, I’m a little quicker at looking for another way through the sentence. And my kettle has become, against its wishes, an educational resource.