Why did it have to be pickled fish?

Last night was going so well: a nice drink in the park after work, pleasant cycle ride home, and then prep for a veggie/tofu stir-fry. Then, disaster.

First, I opened the bag of shredded cabbage purchased on Tuesday for the stir-fry. It was distinctly whiffy and somewhat ... moist, rather than the crisp white shards I'd been hoping for. I poked at it somewhat dubiously and figured it would probably be okay once fried.

Second -- and far worse -- I shut a drawer of supplies after rooting about in it for a packet of cashew nuts. A minute later, I noticed a stream of oily juice emanating from said drawer. On opening it up, I discovered a tin of pickled fish from Denmark had decided to spontaneously self-open, showering all the contents of the drawer with pickle juice. It smelled rank. Within seconds, the stenchiness filled the kitchen, impregnating floor, drawers, cabinets, everything with it's foulness. The next 30 minutes were taken up with trying to minimize the damage, chucking packets that were beyond salvation, and taking a binbag full of sodden kitchen towel outside. It quite put me off my dinner.

I blame the Danes. Not only for their shoddy manufacturing, but also because if they'd switched to the euro in 2002 like sensible nations, I wouldn't have been left with a handful of kroner in Copenhagen airport last year and used it up on a tin of pickled fish. Bastards.