About three weeks ago, I came back from holiday to find a carton of milk in the fridge. Knowing that my digsmate doesn’t drink milk, I thought it belonged to her visiting brother.
But when he left, abandoning the milk carton in the fridge, I was perplexed.
The carton was taking up valuable space in my tiny dinky fridge, and I needed to know what its purpose in life was.
The carton has been glaring at me ever since. Every day, I open the fridge, and there it is, just standing there like a selfish git. Taking up shelf space. My water bottle is undergoing therapy induced by lactose claustrostrobia.
Still, the digsmate is sensitive, and I avoid worrying her with such minimal issues as decomposing milk which is – as I type – turning into frot kak which will crawl up my nose when I’m asleep.
Yesterday, I thought I’d be charitable, and reassure myself that the milk is still legally allowed to be in the fridge as it has not yet expired. So I sauntered into the kitchen, looking normal.
Opening the carton, I should have been alarmed by the solid white flakes that fluttered out, but no. I soldiered on. Only once my poor nose had hovered over the open carton did I realise.
We’re all going to die.