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An elderly Irishman lay dying in his bed. While suffering the
agonies of impending death, he suddenly smelled the aroma of his
favourite scones wafting up the stairs.
He gathered his remaining strength, and
lifted himself from the bed. Leaning against the wall, he slowly
made his way out of the bedroom, and with even greater effort,
gripping
the railing with both hands, he crawled downstairs. With laboured
breath, he leaned against the door frame, gazing into the kitchen.
Were it not for death's agony, he would have thought himself
already in heaven, for here, spread out upon waxed paper on the
kitchen
table were dozens of his favourite scones.
Was it heaven? Or was it one final act of heroic love from his
devoted Irish 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 a rumpled posture.
His
parched lips parted, he could almost taste the scone before it was
in his mouth, seemingly bringing him back to life.
The aged and withered hand trembled on its way to the nearest scone
at the edge of the table, when his hand was suddenly smacked with
a spatula by his wife. . . . . . . . . . . . ..
"F*@k off !! " she said, "they're for the funeral !!
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