A grayish-brown rope of congealed fat, tangled with hair (hers, probably), a fish-shaped plastic toy she didn’t recognize (had that come from a niece’s visit three years ago?), a bramble of parsley stems, rice grains preserved like fossils, and something that might once have been a tea bag, now pressed into a greasy lozenge.
“Outside drain,” she said.
The blocked outside drain from the kitchen sink had begun its quiet rebellion. blocked outside drain from kitchen sink
“Oh,” she whispered. “Oh, you disgusting thing.” A grayish-brown rope of congealed fat, tangled with
“Probably nothing,” she muttered, leaving it to drain. But an hour later, the water still sat there. A skin had formed on top. “Oh,” she whispered
That evening, she installed a small mesh strainer over the plughole. She scraped plates into the bin before rinsing them. She poured fats into an old jar, let them harden, and threw the jar in the rubbish.