In my experience, cling film has two settings:
completely useless
or
aggressively possessive, to the point of requiring a restraining order.

The first setting is where it’ll refuse to stick to anything, including itself, just sliding around like it’s been dipped in a vat of cooking oil — sort of drfting around your kitchen, slipping off bowls with the confidence of someone who’s never faced consequences.

Your sandwich sits there completely naked, somewhat judging you, while this supposed “cling” film behaves like it’s actively repelled by the concept of adhesion. You could be trying to cover molten lava and it would still find a way to slide off with the dignity of a cat that’s just fallen into a bath.

Then there’s setting two. Oh, setting two!

This is where you attempt to tear off a reasonable piece and it suddenly develops the clingy personality of someone who texts “you up?” at 3am six months after you’ve blocked them.
It clings to your hands, the counter, your sleeve, the dog, your dignity. Somehow, the bloody ceiling. I’ve found bits stuck to the back of my neck and I still don’t have a scientific explanation for how that happened.

You’ll spend the next ten minutes performing what can only be described as an interpretive dance, trying to separate one usable piece from the roll, only to end up with what looks like transparent confetti scattered around your kitchen like the aftermath of the world’s most disappointing party.Meanwhile, the bit you actually managed to salvage has rolled itself into a useless ball that wouldn’t cover a grape, let alone your leftovers.

What particularly amuses me is how the dispenser box always lies about having that sharp cutting edge. “Serrated edge for easy cutting,” it promises, like some sort of kitchen equipment dating profile. It’s more like a blunt edge that occasionally works if you sacrifice a small household appliance to the kitchen gods first,and promise to buy the premium brand next time.

There’s also that moment – you know the one – where you think you’ve got it sorted, you’re feeling quite pleased with yourself, and then you realise you’ve somehow managed to stick it to itself in such a way that it’s formed an impenetrable plastic knot. Physics suggests this should be impossible. Cling film doesn’t care about physics.

By the time you’ve successfully covered one bowl, you’ve used approximately half the roll, your kitchen looks like it’s been attacked by very polite vandals who were really committed to the whole “preserving freshness” theme, and there’s cling film adorning things you didn’t even know could be wrapped. The tap’s wearing a little transparent scarf. The fruit bowl’s having a moment. The toaster is somehow involved. Even your pet is eyeing you nervously, probably wondering if they’re next.

And through all of this chaos, that original sandwich is still sitting there, completely exposed, silently mocking your life choices with the quiet confidence of something that knows it’s about to go stale just to spite you.

Somewhere out there, there’s probably someone who’s mastered cling film. Someone who can dispense it smoothly, cut it cleanly and apply it without looking like they’re wrestling an invisible opponent. These people probably also fold fitted sheets properly and remember where they put their car keys.

The rest of us are just here, gradually accepting that perhaps our ancestors managed perfectly well without the ability to wrap things in plastic, and maybe we should consider going back to covering bowls with plates like civilised human beings.