Saturday morning, I woke up to find there was no milk in our flat. (Save a bottle of breastmilk in the fridge, but let’s not entertain that thought. Nope, too late.)
Simon was at work, and making the 10-minute walk to the shop at 7am seemed like a mountain too high for me to climb.
So I did what any self-respecting housewife would do in this situation: I texted my neighbour, and asked if I could borrow some.
“I’m desperate for a cup of tea,” I said, appealing to her British sensibilities.
She understood and, quick as she could, popped round in her jammies – an action which, I feel, is much more radical for a distinguished English lady than one of my American girlfriends – with her milky offering. I thanked her profusely and took it to the kitchen, where I discovered the vessel she’d used made me happier than the milk itself:
I don’t think I have to say that I poured the milk into something else and used this cup for my morning tea (milk, one sugar). It was begging for it, really.