For eleven years I reviewed the water of this city with the diligence of a sommelier and the patience of a cat on a counter. The still bowl, the dripping tap, the toilet, the puddle by the bins: I assessed them all. But last Thursday, I tasted the new ceramic fountain in the Hallworth conservatory and realised I had nothing left to say. It was wet. It was cold. It moved.
Water, I have come to believe, is beyond criticism, much as breathing is, or the postal service. I will go on drinking it from the glass beside the bed at 3 a.m. while you sleep, but I shall do so as a private citizen. This column will now cover the tap. The tap is a more serious matter.
Leave a Reply