Chapter Twenty-One
The Control Freak
A mother’s pride is often a daughter’s curse.
The Bag Lady, Betty, and I were munching on the last of our “anything without coconut” takeaway. They were both eating with their hands, which apparently was now all the rage, while I was eating a crispy lentil Bhaji minus mint sauce.
We sat close to the fire, waiting to feel the warmth.
The fire was now in a coal scuttle and enclosed by a set of bricks, and the heat, it seemed, stopped at the bricks. The Bag Lady was huddled over the fire covered in jackets (to make a point), while Betty (also making a point) was making shivering noises.
I watched the Bag Lady slip the last portion into her mouth. I (to prove my point) threw off my jacket, stuck a fork in my bhaji, and took a bite.
Hmm…
The Bag Lady
