One fine day in 1995 or 1996, my friend Colin Dunn came over to my apartment - the first one, the one on Saskatchewan Drive and 104 street - for a visit. I asked him if he'd like something to drink.
"Sure, I'll have a Coke," he said. Ever the host, I took a glass from the cupboard and poured him a tall, cool, refreshing serving of liquid candy.
We talked about this and that, and Colin upturned the glass to finish off his drink. Suddenly, an expression of stunned disbelief washed over his features. Slowly, shock turned to disgust.
"Earl..." he said, and handed me the glass, holding the open end toward me.
A layer of black mold some two millimetres deep lay oozing and putrescent at the bottom of the glass.
"GOOD LORD!" I screamed. "I'M SO SORRY!"
My face flushed bright pink as my stomach churned in mortification. I was astounded that Colin managed not to puke, having undoubtedly ingested some of the muck along with his soft drink.
To this day, I'm not sure how the goop got there. Though a bachelor at the time, I was disciplined enough to wash the dishes (though not until I'd dirtied every last item in the inventory). Poor Colin was very gracious about the whole affair, though he looked a little green around the gills.
Nowadays, I always check the bottom of the glass before serving guests.