I saw Mrs T in the street, not her usual self, somewhat helpless.
“Is anything wrong?”
“I’m all of a tiz-woz. I don’t know what to do. Someone read my hand and told me my future. I did not want them to do that. Somebody is going to come into my life, fall in love with me and marry me. I ask you, no, I tell you – I don’t believe in love. It’s a pretence, a word used only in soap operas on the TV. What am I going to do.”
I took her hand in mine. “It’s not me, I’m not blond.”
“How do you know that the somebody is blond?”
“Good question, Mrs T.” I took her home with me and made her pancakes to cheer her up.
I put my arm gently around Mrs T and looked into the back of her head. I could see a v.large and v.blond person; the word large referring both to the size and the character of the mysterious person.
The image faded. “Good morning, Mrs T. Shall we have boiled eggs for breakfast?”