Mary scooped a handful of gunk out of the waste disposal – onion skin... flaccid, black lettuce... strings of carrot peel and a melded mush of cornflakes - all bound together with bluish mozzarella.
A bit like John’s eyes.
The blob sat heavy, like an overfed toad, in the palm of her Marigold, and it was with a significant amount of force that she bowled it into the pan.
Having rubbed a potato around the toilet, she chopped and added it, then tipped in the water from the dying carnations.
Cheap. Just like Kiera.
John enjoyed his soup that evening.