Useful if stranded for twelve hours.
Less useful for breakfast.
So twenty minutes ago, after discovering that grocery delivery exists in Whitstable, I ordered what any sensible person would consider the basics.
Eggs.
Sourdough.
Bacon.
Avocados.
Hash browns.
Butter.
Lemon.
The counters are now covered in enough food to make the room feel lived in.
Which, I realise as I unpack the last bag, does something oddly satisfying to my chest.
I don’t examine that too closely.
Instead, I get to work.
Bacon under the grill.
Water heating for poached eggs.
Hash browns lined up on a tray.
I glance over at Heath. There wasn’t anything to do for me this morning.
Mark has topped up his water bottle.
Added fresh food.
Even shifted the little beanie he insisted Heath sleep in so it sits tucked into the corner like some sort of rodent penthouse.
Some of the tension leaves me.
Not because a grown man fed a hamster.
Although, admittedly, that is not a sentence I expected to find moving.
But because he did it without having to be asked.
Just saw a small creature that needed looking after and looked after it.
I’m halfway through mashing the avocado when the radio changes song.
I don’t pay much attention at first.
I’m busy trying to get the consistency right and wondering whether two lemons would push the avocado smash over the edge.
Then the opening notes register.
