My resolve falters as I reach the kitchen door. It will be huge and offensive. It will require a delicate touch. It will be mine to deal with – yuk!

As I approach, an advance scouting party of flies lifts off and disperses itself across less appetising surfaces to wait, I imagine, for the all-clear. Well, not for a while and not here I tell them. I peer forensically at the agglutinated mass, put on gloves and aim a squirt of surfactant at the festering heap. Then, dissecting out two small bones and a piece of cartilage, I wonder for the nth time how come last night’s washing up is always my job[1].

[1] If you’ve ever shared a flat and had a party, you know how this goes. That is, unless you’re the one who gets up last and it’s all been done, gets up so early your hangover hasn’t even started yet and you leave the house in your underpants, or you emerge from the wardrobe three days later and nobody knows who you are.

From Not Being First Fish by P Spencer-Beck.  Available from Amazon (non-illustrated edition). Second edition (illustrated) due 2018.