A Late Breakfast

 I tell my mother it would make me happy if she ate some cereal. "Got to keep your strength up" I say cheerily. And she concedes.

So I stand by the bed with a bowl of cereal in my hand,  spoon feeding her and watching the water drip from the eaves. The media folk have got hold of the phrase "weather-bomb" and are using it on every possible occasion and this is something  I deplore because a weather front is not at all like a bomb- a bomb is instantaneous and spreads destruction from its centre whereas weather advances and persists- and I hate anything that degrades and cheapens language. Pure sensationalism; that's what it is....

The cat jumps up onto the bed and sits on my mother's chest.