All parched and wrinkled

At a party, I select from a plate of desserts a slice of fruit cake.

I offer some to a friend. “Oh, no thanks. I can’t stand dried fruit.”

“Makes you contemplate your own mortality?” I offer, “All parched and wrinkled, like one day we’ll all be?”

“No,” she says, “I just don’t like the texture. Chewy”.

On this, another friend comes over to us and says: “Are you on about your mortality again?”

Aghast, I ask when she’s ever heard me talking about my mortality. She tells me I was “on about it” only last Tuesday in the cinema queue. Apparently I had likened the queuing system to life; that we wait and wait in the hope of a reward at the end of the waiting, only to be fobbed off with food we can’t taste and a fart-smelling chair.

I’d swear she was making that up but she did it in my voice and everything.

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