Wednesday, 23 August 2017

A Knocking from the Oven.

My bathroom smells mysteriously of baked apples tonight, with just a hint of hot plastic thrown in.

You sometimes wonder whether you’re getting a message from across the great divide, don’t you? So now I’m scratching my head and trying to remember whether I know anybody who is:

a. Dead.
b. Stupid enough to bake apples in a plastic bowl.

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