I thought, because I’m nothing if not brave and galant, that before I went to work I would just have a quick look in the fridge and get rid of anything that had gone off, expired or whatever.
It was a remarkably light haul, merely two containers with a noggin (official volumetric term meaning some but not loads) of yogurt in each. One strawberry. One natural Greek. Both chancing it on the how long they have been open versus the introduction of new bacteria scale.
It turns out, and I did not know this until this afternoon, that Greek yogurt must – I don’t know – cry when it is left in the tub, away from the rest of its kind as I went to empty out the container for appropriate recycling and it basically covered me in what is best described as scummy yogurt water.
Did I mention I did this before I went to work.
Like, literally just before I went to work.
I had a few minutes to kill before I needed to leave. I thought I would be productive. Instead I became, if anything, cultured.
Fun thing about my work stuff. It’s all black. Black trousers. Black top.
Fun thing about natural Greek yogurt scum water. It is not black.
Luckily, I have the reflexes of a cat (and, for once, not Bagpuss) and I was able to move most of me out of the way. It only went up my arms. And across the kitchen worktop. I cleaned it up. I moved on with my life.
Of course I didn’t.
I spent the journey to work, and the time at work, occasionally sniffing my arms to see if they carried the scent of manky yogurt. I don’t know what I was smelling for. I assume that, like off milk, I would have known. But still. I also don’t know why I kept sniffing. After the initial sniff one would assume there would not be a developing smell. But no, I carried on, as though the water – even though it had been washed off and my arms dried – was in some way fermenting on my skin.
I kind of want to sniff them now, again. Even though I’m home and know there is no lingering smell of death yogurt.
I’ll just check, though…