I have been spilling drinks a lot lately. According to my beloved, this has happened at least three times in the last six months. The first two times it was wine. One way or another, I would clumsily tip my glass over, and the wine would flow everywhere around me. There are indelible traces of the spills on the wall of my beloved’s apartment. This evening it happened in the Bulldog Pub, though. I spilled my beloved’s beer all over her, but most of it went straight into her bag, which was perched by her side. The glass was full when I pushed it over, for we had just arrived. Mesmerized, I followed the flow like in a slow-motion movie. It was amazing to behold. The glass lying empty on the table between us, she quickly got up, picked up her bag, and turned it upside down. The beer flowed out of it and spilled all over the floor. “I’m going to the toilet,” she said blankly. It took her a while to return, and then we headed home without much discussion. The cleanup took almost an hour, for the bag was packed full with all sorts of stuff, including her scarf and her miniature umbrella. I helped her along as best I could, and we ended up laughing about the spill. “Straight into the bag,” I squealed with laughter at some point. The steady flow from the glass to the bag is forever etched in my mind. Anyhow, it is time for me to consider yet another sign of old age. I am losing control of my hands. Beware of glasses, old man. And especially when full.