To cut a lovely and long story short: After a magic fortnight, J. presented me a dish-towel containing following prophesy:
It starts whenDon't know why, but at that time I did not take notice of that Miss E. was laughing a bit louder than me, and that there was a certain sparkling in her eyes.
into her arms,
and it ends
with your arms
in the sink.
End of the beforegoing.
Two weeks ago the former Miss E., now Mrs. J., and Miss J. kept me busy with washing up, as they were baking twelve different kinds of cookies all Saturday and Sunday.
And what shall I say? They knew to make me feel a very important person.
- Great, Sean, you are faster than any dishwasher.
- Popoye [not Popeye!!], would you like to taste a champagne-cookie?
- Without you, Sean / Popoye [not Popeye!!] baking would be really boring.
Well, it might have been tactic - αἰεὶ δὲ μαλακοῖσι καὶ αἱμυλιοῖσι λογοῖσι θέλγει :) - but one thing is for sure: If Circe's daughters had done the washing-up, the result of the baking would have been exciting.
Well, and last Saturday Mrs. J made three marvellous cakes / tortes (?) to spoil her Mum and the five ladies she had invited for Sunday afternoon. And again my arms ended in the sink.
20 hours later: 491 years happily sitting in one room, and how lovely to hear the girls chirping like birdies, enjoying to get served like Queens. And how flattering to hear them praising Mrs. J's art of baking. And how ... err ... polite none of the ladies would ask why their charming waiter had webs between his wizened fingers.
All this just to let you know that said webs have almost disappeared, and I am back again.