Not one to waste words, Mrs. Ottawacker

Saturday, and the Ottawacker clan, minus their patriarch, were off to Kanata to escape the 35 degree temperatures and swim in a pool. My brother-in-law has eschewed his socialist convictions on the grounds that he is nearly 60 and might as well enjoy his remaining years. While he travelled up to see relatives, Ottawackers revelled in his pool. Some of his socialist convictions remain, I am glad to say.

I, meanwhile, was working on the book. Coming close to an end. And when I meandered down to make myself some breakfast mid-morning, I found the side of the stove normally reserved for bacon and egg frying festooned with some garishly coloured objects, This, I later discovered, is called fruit. Some of it was also covering the toast-making-machinery. 

What does one do in a situation like this? I mean, is it safe to touch? It smelled sweet - almost like a diabetic's breath - so rather than take a risk, I swept it into the compost and told Mrs. Ottawacker I had eaten it all. 

Then I made myself a bacon sandwich, a couple of rounds of toast, and a pot of tea.