When Aunt Margaret was ladling something from the pot, I fished antibacterial wipes out of my handbag and started swabbing the forks. She caught me in the act.
Id popped over to her little terraced house in Bath to drop off some paperwork. We only see each other at Christmas, but this time there was an emergency. She isnt feeling tiptop, though that has nothing to do with money. Im not stingy; I believe a tidy home is the backbone of a decent life. You can live modestly, but the house still needs to be kept shipshape.
The hallway is lined with dustcatchers countless knickknacks, teaset pieces and jam jars stacked in piles that could rival a pantry. In the bathroom sits a litter tray for Mog the cat Aunt Margaret gives it a wash once a week. Rubbish teeters at her feet, and the flat smells faintly of sewage and wilted leftovers.
Aunt Margaret offered me a bite and began setting the table. As she arranged the dishes I noticed they were grimy. While she was ladling from the pot, I slipped a wipe from my bag and gave the forks a quick polish.
She raised an eyebrow and asked, Not hungry, or not to your taste?
What on earth was I supposed to say? Have any of you ever found yourselves in a similar pickle?
