Appologies in advance to the population of Wales.But it is only a joke.
An elderly man lay dying in his little bed, while suffering the
agonies of impending death; when he suddenly smells the aroma of his
favourite treat, freshly made Welsh cakes, wafting up the stairs from
the kitchen.
He gathers his remaining strength, and lifts himself from his bed. And,
leaning on the wall, he slowly made his way out of the bedroom, and
with even greater effort, gripping the railing with both hands, he
slowly crawls downstairs.
With laboured breath, he leans against the kitchen door frame, gazing
through watery eyes into the kitchen.
Were it not for death's agony, he would have thought himself already in
heaven, for there, spread out upon waxed paper on the kitchen table
were dozens of freshly made Welsh cakes fresh from the oven and cooling
slowly.
Was he in heaven? Or was it one final act of love from his Devoted
Welsh wife of sixty years, seeing to it that he left this mortal world
a truly happy man?
Mustering one great final effort, he threw himself towards the table,
landing on his knees in a rumpled posture.
His aged and withered hand trembled as it moved slowly towards the
closest Welsh cake, possessing extra raisins, his favourite ones laid
out neatly at the edge of the table, when it was suddenly smacked by
his wife with a spatula.
"F**k off" she says, "they're for the funeral."
An elderly man lay dying in his little bed, while suffering the
agonies of impending death; when he suddenly smells the aroma of his
favourite treat, freshly made Welsh cakes, wafting up the stairs from
the kitchen.
He gathers his remaining strength, and lifts himself from his bed. And,
leaning on the wall, he slowly made his way out of the bedroom, and
with even greater effort, gripping the railing with both hands, he
slowly crawls downstairs.
With laboured breath, he leans against the kitchen door frame, gazing
through watery eyes into the kitchen.
Were it not for death's agony, he would have thought himself already in
heaven, for there, spread out upon waxed paper on the kitchen table
were dozens of freshly made Welsh cakes fresh from the oven and cooling
slowly.
Was he in heaven? Or was it one final act of love from his Devoted
Welsh wife of sixty years, seeing to it that he left this mortal world
a truly happy man?
Mustering one great final effort, he threw himself towards the table,
landing on his knees in a rumpled posture.
His aged and withered hand trembled as it moved slowly towards the
closest Welsh cake, possessing extra raisins, his favourite ones laid
out neatly at the edge of the table, when it was suddenly smacked by
his wife with a spatula.
"F**k off" she says, "they're for the funeral."
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