It’s 4.30pm and I’m cutting up prosciutto for my 89-year-old uncle so he can take his evening pills with something in his stomach. Something other than the orgy of Mini Magnum ice-cream bars that he and my aunt just wolfed down while I was intercepting the pizza delivery guy.
What kind of a midlife fool do they take me for? As if I wouldn’t notice the sticky aftermath smeared all over their guilty faces. Not to mention hearing their entire “covert” operation when I came back into the house. Busted. They forgot to turn on their hearing aids and couldn’t hear a thing they were doing, or how loudly they were doing it – the freezer drawer slamming, the wrappers crackling, the gleeful squeals and smacking lips. Those sly dogs.
