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In which I recall, in graphic and lurid detail, the spectacular moment from this week when four pints of rotting and fetid milk exploded around my kitchen. To be accompanied by a dead rat the size of my forearm, obvs. Also featuring the true secret behind my dining room table; why it's so okay not to be okay; the reasons I think it's highly unlikely Jamie will ever become a vegan; and what period pants and marbling have in common. God, that ****ing milk *head in hands*