Food for Thought

Since the announcement of the Wise Owl column, Dotty had become unusually reticent. Concerned, Nora and Wilma decided on a surprise visit and found her sat at the computer, her fingers furiously tapping the keyboard. Flustered with the intrusion, Dotty gave the duo her faux bonhomme smile and quickly minimized the screen.

“I did call out but you didn’t answer.” Wilma approached her and placed a hand on her shoulder. “We’re anxious about you. Are you all right?”

“Of course I’m fine. Just extremely busy.” She took off her glasses and rubbed her weary eyes.

Nora stared at Dotty, her lips pursed she shook her head. “This sudden mission of yours has given you periorbital puffiness,” she commented.

Dotty pushed her chair away from the desk and rubbed the back of her neck. “Let’s have a cuppa. I need a break.” They followed her to the kitchen and helped lay the tea tray.

Nora, her arms folded across her ample bosom, leant against the cupboard with her legs crossed at the ankles. “Are you going to explain why you’re so busy or is it a deep, dark secret? Maybe a lover in your cupboard!”

Dotty gave her a sideward glance and continued pouring the boiled water into the teapot. She lifted the tray and carried it to the sitting room. “Damn, I’ve forgotten the cake platter,” she said, not addressing anyone in particular. She returned to the kitchen to collect it.

Nora took the opportunity and whispered to Wilma who poured the tea, “She’s up to no good – guilty as heck.”

Wilma put a finger to her lips, “Shush, she can hear a pin drop. By the second cup, she’ll reveal all. You know she can’t keep  secrets.”

Nora finished her tea and placed the teacup on the side table and blurted, “Are you going to tell us what you’re up to?”
An impish grin crossed Dotty’s face. “How do you want it? In chapters or books?”

“Holy Moses, your brain cells have mutated. Is this going to take long?” Wilma asked.

“I, my dears…  am writing our autobiography,” Dotty stated with defiance.

Nora leapt up and screeched, “Writing our autobiography! You’ve had a stroke.” She swung to face Wilma. “It’s time to phone the loony bin.”

“Nora, they don’t put stroke patients in a loony bin. Show some compassion.” Wilma scolded, wagging a finger at her.

Dotty fell back in her chair in laughter. “Visualize a sexy cover adorning our terrific bods: each page inscribes the juicy bits of our lives. “ Tears rolled down her cheeks.

The other two went ashen.  Wilma swallowed dryly. “You can’t do that, it’s a travesty of justice. With your wild imagination and wishful thoughts, readers will think we’re sluts. Be appropriate and fantasies about yourself which, no doubt will be volumes.” She turned to Nora, “You’re right – she’s needs to be admitted in the loony bin – the fantasy ward. Make sure it’s close to the male psychopaths so she can entertain them with her autobiography.”

Dotty retrieved a tissue, wiped her eyes and blew her nose; pleased she’d evoked ’ food for thought’.


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