Fergal was upstairs, bed-bound and diagnosed with terminal cancer. Bridie was busying herself in the kitchen cooking cheese scones. Fergal’s favourites. The delicious aroma wafted upstairs and Fergal couldn’t bare it any longer. With great difficulty he hauled himself out of bed, crawled painfully downstairs and into the kitchen. His bony hand reached up to the table. Bridie picked up the rolling pin and roared, ‘feck off, they’re for your funeral!’
