I’m deliciously naked under my light but warm Doona on a surprisingly cool summer Saturday.
In the background I can hear the soft resonance of bells, toning effortlessly in tune with rustling leaves and summer breezes.
As I awaken a super-fast replay of my most recent dreams from last night plays before my eyes.
“I’m not being as mother-in-law like as I should. I used to be more mother-in-law like!”
I’ve got nothing against it – being mother-in-law like – as mine was superb.
“I just cannot be like that. But I’ve nothing against mothers-in-law,” I say, as my pen begins to lose its ink in a rather unconventional way, like a fine line of blue rubber exuding from its nib.
I rush to show Matthew who is sitting at the kitchen bench with a typically bemused, benevolent look, showing him the stiff line of ink as it inches towards him into a horizontal line suspended in the air – leaving my pen totally emptied and satisfyingly clear.
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