I can’t pour things. I don’t mean complicated stuff such as concrete, paint for road markings or a cake glaze; I’m talking simple fluids from simple vessels. I can’t get jugs or teapots to work for me. I’ve been dribbling and dripping all my life, making a mess whenever I am called upon to transfer liquid from one place to another. There is either a global issue here, concerning humankind’s inability to manufacture pouring apparatus that pour cleanly, or it’s just me. I think it’s just me.
Take a manoeuvre executed satisfactorily by everyone apart from me: the making of a cup of tea in a semi-formal setting such as a breakfast table in an old-fashioned hotel, or a tearoom in a wholesome setting – a National Trust asset, perhaps. Faced with teapot, milk jug and, perhaps, for added stress, an extra jug of hot water, I know with dark certainty that the tablecloth is in for a besmirching. First there’s the milk, a certain amount of which will run down the outside of the jug rather than into the cup. But then comes the deluge. For it is time for the teapot.
