Nanna farted blowing out her 90th birthday candles. She blew the ‘zero’ right out. The ‘nine’ was more stubborn. I stood to extinguish it with my thirty-two-year-old lungs, thumping the table to hide the flatulence, spilling everyone’s cups of tea into their saucers. Nobody said a word.
Frozen cherries in the morning. How they hurt my teeth! Every now and then a cold hammer strikes the craggy surface of a molar and shockwaves reverberate along rows of pearly white.
A good book (Ulysses this time) and a cup of molasses tea.
Last night’s tantrum is over now, absorbed in a bowl of overly-salted porridge.