Pureau water from a cask is the best water I’ve ever had the pleasure of having in my mouth.
It’s crisp, it’s cool and most of all, it’s light and tastes like dream-streams. It’s also my most crippling addiction because every other water now tastes like disease.
The moment I dare to utter my feelings about this water, I hear a voice. It tells me that I should be grateful to be able to turn on a tap and fill a glass with clean water, while children walk miles every day with buckets on each end of a long bendy stick, just to bring home filthy brown water to cook, wash and drink from.
Declaring my love for this conveniently boxed water makes me feel like a white person who goes to a Kenyan refugee camp to film a documentary about the true horror of refugee life then books a flight home via the Qantas app on their iPhone in front of everyone.
My overactive guilt [read: emotions in general] gene manages to creep into action at least once per day, sucking the enjoyment I get out of any activity.
I just never imagined water to be an activity.