A Saturday afternoon nap was rudely interrupted by a loud pop. Another bottle of crab apple had exploded. I sprang out of bed, put the bottle in the fridge and grabbed a mop. Any neighbours peering too closely through our frosted glass would have had a nasty surprise. Naked mopping has little to recommend it.
As before, half the bottle had been lost. Claire and I drank the remainder during a quiet evening where I read the Guardian and did little else. After an active fortnight of high living, the rest and relaxation was welcome.