As it turns out, the death of my pepper mill rather affected me. I dreamed of it, you see. Not of the death scene, though I’m sure I’ll always remember it, but of the replacement scene. I dreamed of going out and buying a new pepper mill. I felt disloyal; I felt like a betrayer, I also felt like I could never find just the right one.
Dreams are great prompters, I rely on them hugely, and so once I’d woken and gone through the normal morning procrastination routine (i.e. being slaughtered at scrabulous, drinking too much tea) I ventured to the shops to find me a new one. The result is a pair of shiny mills, one for salt and one for pepper, that look like chess pieces. They are quite enormous and have lovely little round pregnant bellies full of useful condiment. I would be enamoured but they are kitchenware and so I won’t.