They were only two battered old stools, but unloading them at the recycling centre, I remembered how we had bought them together, how we had sat at that old breakfast bar in our first home and ate and drank and talked and laughed till the wine ran out of our noses.
Did we make a mistake I wonder? But then you can’t be here and I can’t be there and that will never change and sometimes, love is not enough.
Wearily I turn the wheel and head for the solace of home.
Yet as I drive away, I see a young couple pull them from the scrapheap and giggling, smuggle them covertly into their van. Their new journey begins, like our own.