We had started washing up the night before, but glasses with bits of wine in them were still on the table, along with several bottles, odd plates and various other debris. A table the morning after is like a beach after a storm, so clearing it is a bit like beachcombing, picking through the crusts of bread, mandarin peelings, spills and caps, and discovering that the wire cage from the fizzy wine has been re-twisted into a stick man, a Ferrero Rocher wrapper is now a ring and a walnut shell has been turned into a tiny ashtray.
The table didn’t belong to me, but to an old friend. We had both enjoyed plenty of wine, and it was Sunday, and raining outside, and everyone else was sleeping or under duvets and watching stuff on their devices, so there was no reason or rush to do anything. We sat at the table with the debris, drinking coffee for ages, and deciding to move only when we needed to eat – the kids, too. There were pots and pans all over the stove and we needed some space. The biggest pot had what seemed to me extremely dry remains at the bottom, so I put it in the sink and turned on the tap, figuring that a good soak would help.
