- the dirty dozen -
As she entered the kitchen she heard her husband muttering to himself " Four... Five... "
She paused for a moment then asked "What are you doing?"
"What's that?" he answered.
"What are you doing?" She repeated.
"I’m putting the eggs away. What do you think I'm doing?"
"What were you counting?"
"I was counting?"
"Sounded like it to me"
"Oh brother" he muttered, running a hand over his eyes and shaking his head. "I was counting the bloody eggs. What next"
"Why would you count a dozen eggs?
You already know there's twelve of 'em"
"Blame it on that damned book."
"What book?"
"That book on personality traits.
According to the quiz I’m a melancholy. Melancholies like order. We are compulsive listers and counters."
Worriedly he asked "You’re not going to tell anyone about this are you?
I can just hear it.
"Hey, I’ve got three apples in my hand. If I put them in the fridge how many will I have?"
"Don't worry. I won’t tell anyone" she assured him.
"Who'd believe me anyway.
You should wash them though, they're all sort of brown.
Dry them too.
After you’ve finished counting them, of course".
the end...