Procure a rare craving for cereal. Walk to the supermarket clutching wallet in hand—smiling sheepishly at Mrs. Turner’s glance towards what she considers to be your inappropriate attire (shorts), a probable indicator you’ve fallen in her estimate—and spot a brand you especially like (Honey Nut Cheerios? Kellogg’s Fitness?). Walk home triumphantly (Mrs. Turner’s glance now disapproving the state of your legs), drop the change in a tidy column, remove a clean bowl from the cabinet, cleanly open the pack of cereal (no tears), pour in just the right amount, fetch a banana, slice the banana, drop in the slices with a flourish, open the fridge to pour in the milk, and the fridge—the fridge mocks you with its lack of milk. We had milk, you say. I checked before leaving the house. What happened to it? There was half a carton and the neighbours dropped in wanting some, they say. We just gave them the carton when you went to the shop. Scan the change; you’re 5p short to buy a new carton, and the teller’s stubbornly stringent. You’re unwilling to cash-in a solid 20. Fork up the banana slices and reluctantly spoon the cereal dry into your mouth instead. Should’ve had eggs.