I’m not sure how lazy this makes me, but on returning home yesterday I arrived back to a flat in a state I simply do not experience these days. Never before in the enlightened age has it come to this, yet here I was – living proof that the times I thought I had left behind me were, in fact, not at all left behind me.
No, not the piles of rubbish all over the floor. They add to the ambience of the place. And not the tons of crap everywhere either. We’ve already established I’m a terrible hoarder and that I have more stuff than I do room.
No, this was something altogether worse. This was… I find it hard to even say it. It’s embarrassing. It’s sickening.
I was out of milk.
I’m sorry. I am.
But on returning and seeing this – this thing that hadn’t happened for years until today – I had to act quickly, decisively and simply: turn around, go back out of the house, walk to the shop, buy some milk. I did not do that.
I can make all the excuses I want: I was tired from travelling; I had just taken my shoes off; I was on the beer anyway. But none of them will ever make up for the fact that, for the last 36 hours or however long I’ve been back, I have been without milk.
Fortunately, I’m now getting the tea and coffee cravings to such a degree that I have to leave the house. If I look like a smackhead looking for his next fix, you’ll know why.