Alice poked her finger through the hole in the tablecloth and wiggled it.
“The moths in this house must have teeth like rats.”
Her friend Margery, who was sitting next to the fire, looked
up from her knitting, “It probably was
a rat. I told you when you put it away you ought to wash it first. Vermin are
attracted to food—“
“Well, thank you
for stating the obvious! And may I remind you, the washing machine isn’t
padlocked. You could get up off your rather considerable backside and use it
yourself. I don’t know why I have to do everything round here!”
“Oh dear,” said Margery, “someone’s a crosspatch this
afternoon.”
“Crosspatch indeed! And if I am, I have good reason! It
makes my hackles boil to think I’ve got to put up with the little monster and
his wife all evening. And feed them
both.”
“Blood, dear. Blood boils… hackles rise. You’ve mixed your
metaphors.”
“Rubbish! You can’t boil blood.”
“No, dear. Well, I get your drift, but calling him a
monster? That’s a bit harsh. He’s your only nephew, and to be fair, you haven’t
gone to a lot of trouble. Tinned soup to start, tinned meat stew for the main
course followed by tinned sponge pudding. Not an ambitious menu. It hardly
tested your imagination or your culinary skills. The only challenge was to the
tin opener.”
“I’ll have you know the rather considerable squeezing and
twisting involved in opening all those tins played havoc with the arthritis in
my wrists.”
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