I keep my ever-expanding collection of mismatched tupperware in the press above the kitchen fan. It's too awkward a space to store anything else; so I pile them all in haphazardly, paying no heed to matching like with like or lids with anything. Badly stacked tubs teeter threateningly every time I get up on my tip-toes to rummage and more often than not the whole lot come crashing down on me, smacking me in my upturned, optimistic face. It hurts and I get angry that it's happened again. Then the sting vanishes because it is, after all, only plastic, so I get over my strop and pick all of the shite up off the floor, reconstruct the previous chaos and hold it all in with one hand while I close the door on it with the other.
I think it may be a metaphor for something.
I think it may be a metaphor for something.
