Barefoot, I clambered onto the countertop, shimmied toward the door, leapt through onto the carpet, which I presumed the shards had not reached, and fetched young Henry from the airing cupboard. “Henry,” I said, “I’ve got a treat for you!”. Henry stared blankly, stunned still by excitement, I imagine, as he tends to be when tantalised with the prospect of a delicious mess. I guided him toward the centre of the kitchen, and watched him slurp up the goodies, leaving but a sticky Ribena memory on the tiles.