azmastablasta
New member
An elderly man lay dying in his bed. While suffering agonies on his way to
his final moment, he suddenly smells the aroma of his favourite scones
wafting up the stairs.
He gathered his remaining strength, and lifted himself from the bed. Leaning
on the wall, he slowly made his way out of the bedroom, gripping the wall;
he slowly makes it to the kitchen.
There, piled on a tray are his favourite scones. Was it heaven? Or was it
one final act of love from his devoted Scottish wife of sixty years, seeing to
it that he left this world a happy man?
Mustering one great final effort, he threw himself towards the table, landing
on his knees in rumpled posture. His aged and withered hand trembled
towards a scone at the edge of the table, when it was suddenly smacked by
his wife with a wooden spoon.
"Hands off!" she said, "they're for the funeral".
his final moment, he suddenly smells the aroma of his favourite scones
wafting up the stairs.
He gathered his remaining strength, and lifted himself from the bed. Leaning
on the wall, he slowly made his way out of the bedroom, gripping the wall;
he slowly makes it to the kitchen.
There, piled on a tray are his favourite scones. Was it heaven? Or was it
one final act of love from his devoted Scottish wife of sixty years, seeing to
it that he left this world a happy man?
Mustering one great final effort, he threw himself towards the table, landing
on his knees in rumpled posture. His aged and withered hand trembled
towards a scone at the edge of the table, when it was suddenly smacked by
his wife with a wooden spoon.
"Hands off!" she said, "they're for the funeral".