A very elderly man lay in his bed, terminally ill. While suffering the hideous agonies of impending death, he suddenly smelled the gorgeous aroma of his favourite scones wafting merrily up the stairs.
He gathered whatever strength of his remained, and agonisingly lifted himself from the bed. Leaning against the wall, he slowly made his way out of the bedroom, and with even greater effort, gripping the railing with two arthritic hands, he made his painful way downstairs.
With laboured breath, he leaned against the door-frame, gazing straight into the kitchen. Were it not for death's embrace of agony, he would have thought himself already in heaven, for there, spread out upon the kitchen table were literally hundreds of his favourite scones.
Was this the Lord's glorious heaven? Or was it one final act of love from his loving and devoted Yorkshire wife of sixty years, seeing to it that he left this world a happy man?
Mustering one great final effort, he threw himself towards the table, landing on his knees in rumpled posture.
His aged and withered hand trembled towards a scone at the edge of the table, when it was suddenly smacked away by his wife with a wooden spoon ......
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'Bugger off' she said, 'they're for the funeral.'
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