Cheese Scones

>An elderly Irishman lay dying in his bed. While suffering the agonies of
>impending death, he suddenly smelled the aroma of his favourite cheese
>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 cheese 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 cheese 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. . . . . . . . . . .
>
> >
>
> >
>
> >
>
>”Fü©k off !! ” she said, “they’re for the funeral !!”