Sometimes I have visions.
Jars of condiments falling out of my hands to shatter on the tiled, kitchen floor.
400 ml of mustard spreading around the floor in slow motion, among shards of glass. There is a hint of splendour (and cumin) to this mundane apocalypse. At least in my imagination.
In reality, it’d probably loudly plop on the floor, with the top half of the jar hovering lopsided on a yellow mound.
No symmetric magnificence, no aesthetic ejection of colours, no concentric patterns of shards emanating from the red centre piece, the jar lid.
Just a loss of 400ml (minus two spoons) of good mustard.
