Scones and stones won’t break my bones

The next moment I am flying.

It lasts a few seconds and when I’m done and because I haven’t ploughed the ground with my teeth I can deal with my hubby’s laughter first: “How was my … elegant flight?” I join him in splitting his sides, happy that I just about didn’t fall and hurt myself.

“I was just trying to find out whether I know anything else about scones with clotted cream,” I explain. “Of course I saw the branch lying there, all thin and unimportant. And of course I thought one should be able to simply step over its 2 cm. But then I thought of scones and the very next moment I made a very efficient tripping tool out of the innocent branch.”

Something in me wants to laugh the rest of the day so I try to keep it at bay by means of explanation. “Scones with clotted cream?!?!” He’s laughing again, even though it was him who brought up the topic, asking whether I knew anything about them. I didn’t. And I can’t stop laughing anymore, either.


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