When she was ladling something from the saucepan, I pulled a packet of anti-bacterial wipes from my handbag and began scrubbing the forks. She caught sight of it.
Not long ago, I popped round to my aunts house to drop off some important papers. We usually only see each other at Christmas, but this was urgent. She doesnt live particularly well, though its not at all about money. I dont think of myself as stingy; I simply believe tidiness and cleanliness are absolutely fundamental. You can live modestly, but the house ought to be kept in proper order.
All along her sitting room wall, shelves groaned under an eclectic assortment of dust-gatherers. Trinkets, porcelain sets, empty jam jarsstacked in haphazard towers. In the bathroom, a litter tray for the catAunt Daphne only gives it a scrub once every week. Rubbish flutters underfoot wherever you step. And the flat hums with the stench of drains and rotting food.
My aunt offered me something to eat and started setting the table, retrieving plates and cutlery. I watched her hands; the plates bore smudges and the forks were distinctly sticky. While she busied herself serving something murky from the saucepan, I quietly fished my wipes from my bag and began polishing the forks.
She noticed. As I gingerly picked at my meal, Aunt Daphne said in a rather guarded tone:
Not hungry, or is it not to your taste?
What could I possibly say to that? Have you ever found yourself in such a strange predicament?
