TOAST AND YOGHURT

I work from home. Well, in between eating bits of toast, anyway. After the long Easter hols, today is Sammy’s first day back, and so my normal, quiet, toast-eating routine has returned.

I think she knows. Just before she left this morning, she told me to make sure I use a plate, hinting again that my notion of creating-less-washing-up-by-eating-toast-from-a-bit-of-kitchen-roll actually causes more mess in the kitchen and not less. I nodded.

Anyway, she went to work. Later, I found myself slicing a piece of sourdough and popping it into the toaster. That gives me enough time to boil the kettle, make the tea, open the fridge for the butter and the marmalade, and generally hum to myself in a happy sort of way - as you do.

I opened the fridge and reached in for the marmalade, hiding behind the cheese and the left over salsa from fajita night. I can’t tell you exactly how it happened, and there is no reason from a physics perspective as to why it did, but a pot of yoghurt jumped off the shelf and upended itself over the kitchen floor.

I don’t like it when things like this happen. My brain cycles through the stages of grief like Superman skim-reading. Within a moment I’d reached ‘acceptance’, and went to find kitchen roll and a damp cloth. The yoghurt had splashed on the tiles and had dolloped mostly onto a kitchen mat, which I scrubbed and then threw into the washing machine.

It should be dry before she gets home. I’ve cleaned everything else. I had to re-toast the toast though. It popped midway through the drama. By the way, if you cook it twice, is it still toast? I guess it is. There’s an invisible line between warm, crispy bread and actual toast, but I suppose once you get beyond it, there’s no way back, there’s only toastier toast. Toast is toast; it’s a second-law-of-thermodynamics thing.

Like much of life, unfortunately.

I put the empty yoghurt pot in the bin.