Debut Flash: 'Piccalilli Moment' by Ruth Allen-Humphreys

Nostrils smarting with the bite of vinegar, fingertips burning. This was supposed be an act of weekend mediation, but my phone has been pinging with interruptions so often that this piccalilli will be pungent with frustration. My tolerance snaps when I find the mustard powder empty. I cry because the experience is ruined, and I flick my phone to silent.

Later, as I crawl towards bed, I see my phone flashing in excitement. Missed calls, The Home, my brother. It occurs to me, from the timing of the calls, that they rang him first. He’ll need me to drive, I will put bitter thoughts away and be pragmatic.

We sit in vigil, silence broken by ringing bells and ministrations of gifted carers. I watch them swab his mouth and wonder if it would be appropriate to dip that swab in whisky and roll it across his tongue.  We start to share stories. I tell Dad of attempts at making piccalilli and we think we detect a faint smile.

We travel home in companionship, a new stage in our relationship, decades of rivalry are over. I remember that I kept the last birthday card from him. I don’t tell my brother because I worry that might not have saved his.

I open my front door and the air is rank with rotten, pickled vegetables. I tuck my nose into my jumper and carry the poisoned bowl outside. I let go of the bowl and it thuds into the bin.  It is only fitting that the bowl itself is in the bin. Every time I find myself raging and sobbing at the inconsequential, I will label it a Piccalilli moment. I doubt that I will ever eat Piccalilli ever again.