February, and the kitchen light was the colour of weak tea. The notebook was already a museum of things bought and mislaid. I made a rule that has outlived most of my other rules: only what is still in use may be written down. The name went on the door that winter. It has not come off.

The first survivors were modest, which was the point. Lavazza, because a kitchen should smell inhabited. A Kilner jar, so flour might have a lid rather than a lecture. Brita, once I stopped accusing the tea of a crime committed by the pipes. Coffee. The jar. The cartridges.

I stood at the window and thought: this will do. Not a brand. A beginning. The opinions arrived later, once there was something true to be opinionated about.