Murder was the last thing on Eunice’s mind when she went, one summer’s day, to buy an ice cream. In fact, she had never contemplated murder once in her life. Murder was something that other people did, in another part of town. One read about it. One sees it reported on the television news. This murder was destined to be spontaneous.
She went into the store, asked for a rum and raisin ice cream, had one lick of it, and WHAM she was murdered. Eunice had been murdered. It would have been possible for things to be the other way around with Eunice doing the murdering. Either way, there’d be a dead body.
When the policeman turned up he was horrified at the waste of a good ice cream. No doubt all would agree.
If there’s one thing I can’t stand it is finger prints in the butter. I’m not talking about people who purposely stick a finger in the butter. I’m talking about what my wife does.
We use a butter dish; not like those people who leave the block of butter in the wrapper. We at least have some semblance of respectability. But then when the butter runs out my wife unwraps another block of butter and picking up the block she plonks it on the butter dish. That’s when the finger prints appear on the side of the block. As if it doesn’t matter.
And then, as sure as eggs, the door handle to the refrigerator will be all sticky with butter because after she plonks the block of butter on the butter dish she puts it in the fridge. Hence butter all over the fridge handle.
I’ve put up with this now for thirty-two years. I said to her, “Look, I’ve put up with this for thirty-two years. Can’t you stop putting fingerprints in the butter?”
She’s as stubborn as an ox, my wife. I’ve started to notice greasy butter on a lot of things apart from the fridge door handle. The knife I use to slice the bread is often greasy, and so are the salt and pepper shakers. Butter grease is growing, and all because she picks up the block of butter and plonks it on the butter dish, and then goes and touches everything.
I like ice cream and I don’t mind a spoon or two of it at the end of the meal. My wife doesn’t like ice cream. Yet I notice the ice cream container is all greasy and the spoon in the ice cream is double greasy. She’s doing the butter thing on purpose. In fact, it’s got so bad that I have to wash my hands after I’ve eaten a quota of ice cream. Enough is enough. And now it’s the honey pot.
The day was very hot. Doug thought he’d take his three kids down to the corner shop and buy them each an ice cream. And he’d buy one for himself as well, of course.
The three children ordered their ice creams, although Elsie took ages because she couldn’t choose between chocolate chip cookie ice cream or guava and honeycomb. Eventually all were served and they began the walk back home along the pavement licking their ice creams in a cone.
Suddenly two youths rushed by and purposely knocked all ice creams onto the ground. Doug managed to grab one by the sleeve and gave him such a punch to the jaw that a tooth fell out. The youth ran off holding his chin.
The next thing was that Doug’s garage caught fire and burned to the ground. Everyone knew it was the youths that had set the fire going. The neighbours thought it was fair enough. You don’t bash up people because they think different, and besides they were foreigners. Didn’t Doug have more respect?
The Government from where the two youths originated, said it was all a bit on the nose and sent a few diplomats packing. Things went from bad to worse, and within weeks both countries were dropping bombs on each other. The decimation of both populations was horrendous.
So think next time you take the kids for an ice cream.