After the washing up water comes the sour milk. I brought out a jug of milk from the fridge, sniffed it – nothing. Swirled it round, it didn’t slosh about with as much abandon as I would have expected it to. It sort of listed to the side of the jug, rather than splashed against it. So what did I do? I took a sip. It wasn’t like there wasn’t any other milk in the fridge. But of course, I had to try it, rather than open a new pint. This is my year of living dangerously. And yes, it was sour, horribly sour.

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