the cupboard was bare

so this Old Mother Hubbard went grocery shopping

by the time I make it back to The Tower I have accidentally acquired more food than I can probably eat before its sell-by-date, but at least I remembered the coffee beans and the loo roll

I fanny about for a bit, make a mess, tidy up; make a coffee (milk? tick), smoke a fag (spare packet? nope - will have to venture out again at some stage later on); do laundry (laundry powder? tick), hang out the clean but wet items (totally refuse to use a tumble dryer when there is a breeze blowing, even tho I have no line and there's a "rule" that residents can't put laundry on the balconies) (a clothes horse was one of the first things I bought when I "moved in")

.

(totally in denial about "living" "here"? tick) (here? if I have to) (living? *wrinkles nose and frowns*); smoke another fag, make another coffee, think I ought to eat some of that food. . .

. . .I'm still not doing kitchen knives (altho I have retained the ability to shave under my arms, I'm sure you'll be very pleased to know), so I take a ready-prepared Caesar Salad out of the fridge. . .

and, as I do so, I ponder whether the ready-made salad is worse for the environment (than a DIY salad) because it comes in a plastic carton, and maybe I really ought to have bought a lettuce (even tho I can't chop it up) (altho I could have ripped it); but then again, I won't be doing any washing-up if I eat the salad direct from the carton and put the carton in the recycling afterwards (see what my mind does because I have noone to talk to?) (of course, actually it's too late for this train of thought, because I have already bought the salad - should have done this thinking when I was trolling about town doing the grocery shopping) (see what my mind is doing because I have noone to talk to?)
.

. . .but it's a little sparse on the fun bits, so I add some freshly ground black pepper, more croutons, more dressing and more Parmesan. . .

. . .and promptly burst into tears

he taught me how to shave Parmesan onto my Caesar Salad, rather than grate it

of all the things I have forgotten, why do I have to remember the moment when he stood next to me in the kitchen, next to me, gently took the grater out of my hands, picked up the cheese slicer and tenderly said, in his soft tones, "here, let me do that for you"

it really felt as if he loved me
.
but perhaps he didn't

is there a difference?
between the experience and the reality?
.
does it matter now anyway?
..

actually, don't answer that

.

f*cking Parmesan cheese