Mopping the floor tonight instead of blogging. One of us left the water filter tap running - all the time the news was on TV, while we watched the Syrian women in refugee camps in Lebanon asking the empty-handed mayor for food - the water poured over the counter, soaking Delia Smith's Christmas recipe book, open at Whiskey Dundee Cake, down the side of the sink, splashing into the glass bowls in the cupboard below, making a lake on the tiles, seeping under the plinths.
I dried it all up but I shouldn't have told my husband. He's upset now, full of remorse, blames himself, thinks he's incompetent....when it was just a mistake.
And I think about how much food I ate today at the Riverford Farm Restaurant - a huge mountain of wonderful organic vegetables and salads and a dried fruit compote and a portion of sticky toffee pudding too - so much it hurt.
And how I wish instead it was all in belly of one of those children in the refugee camp who is throwing snowballs at her brother, who is wearing no shoes.
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