Too Many Cooks*

“What’s the time?” I say to Seb, as I come round from a deep afternoon sleep.

Sitting up, he switches his phone on.  “Oh dear,” he drawls.  “Six forty five.  I’d better make you something to eat.  When’s your train?”

“Seven forty five,” I say.  “But I’m not tied to that one.  Let me have a look at when they are and…”  Fiddling with my phone I find the national rail website.  “There’s one at eight forty five,” I say.  Want to prolong my time with him, even if it’s only by another hour.  Love him.  Hate being separated from him.  And need some supper, of course.

Seb rakes a hand through his mane.  He looks so gorgeous in his grey t-shirt, hair sticking up, huge turquoise eyes gazing at me.

“I’d still better make you something,” he says, picking up his enormous electronic smoking device and tugging on it.  Smoke billows out.  “What d’you want?  An omelette?”

“Yum!  The Omelette!”  I say, sipping my water.  “Hang on, The Omelette is my thing.  What if you can make my one thing better than I can and…”

“Well then you’ll have to learn to make a new thing,” he says, kissing me.   

“OK,” I say.  “I’ll write my blog whilst you make The Omelette.”

“Good plan,” he says, pulling his jeans on, wandering off.

Can hear the sounds of washing up coming from the kitchen and now that’s the sizzling sound of frying.  We bought broccoli and mushrooms earlier and I know there’s some cheddar.  It ought to be a fine omelette…

Attached photo is the fluffy monster’s mum, after an exhausting bout of ironing.

Happy Sunday everyone!
*1938.  By Rex Stout.  The fifth Nero Wolfe detective novel.

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