When Aunt Margaret was ladling a stew from the pot, I slipped a pack of antibacterial wipes from my handbag and began scrubbing the forks. She caught the movement.
Id just dropped by her flat in Manchester to hand over some paperwork. We only see each other at Christmas, but this time something urgent had come up. Shes not well, though it has nothing to do with money. Im not cheap; I believe cleanliness and order are the backbone of any home. You can live modestly, but the house must stay proper.
The walls are plastered with dustcollectorsevery sort of figurine, china set and jam jar piled in neat stacks of dozens. In the bathroom sits a litter tray for her cat, which she rinses only once a week. Rubbish heaps at her feet. The flat reeks of sewage and rotting food.
Aunt Margaret offered me a bite and started setting the table. As she arranged the plates I saw they were filthy. While she ladled from the pot, I fished the wipes from my bag and started wiping the cutlery.
She noticed. When I began poking at the food, she asked, You not hungry, or dont you like it?
What was I supposed to say? Had any of you ever found yourselves in a similar bind?
