Morning: I reached for the mug of tea on my bedside table. It was early and all I could taste was hot.
In the shower I used the still-almost-full bottle of Apple Mint gel bought in a Norfolk pound shop last summer. There's a reason it's been relegated to the back of the shelf: it smells of factories rather than orchards or herb gardens, of plastic rather than sharp bubbles of cider. To make matters worse, it's the colour of an abrasive mouthwash or a wake-up stripe in toothpaste.
And it clashes with the pretend limestone of the tiled walls.