Italian food fight

Breakfast in a b and b throws up many odd companions. I’m not at my most sociable before noon. This morning a huntin, shootin, fishin, Brexiteer Mason took the shredded wheat. I was opposed to almost every word that came out of his mouth but in a fascinated what will he say next kind of way. He was pleasant enough, just assumed everyone in the world agreed with him.

Mum is frailer since I last saw her, she’s been having trouble swallowing. But she perks up with my encouragement and eats a series of small meals. She need assistance with getting the food to her mouth, although she loves yoghurt so much, she spooned it in herself at a rate of knots.

This afternoon was an Italian food fight, also known as making pizza. Mum’s neighbour M didn’t want to share her tomato paste and cheese and even attempted to snaffle Mum’s pizza base, she got the beady eye from long years of teaching and I realised where I get it from.

Two slices of pizza cut up went down a treat, Mum’s lost a lot of weight recently, so constant snacks on the agenda.

You haven’t lived until you’ve seen half a dozen people with varying degrees of dementia covered happily in tomato paste and grated cheese.

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