Rosey pulled on her rubber gloves and plunged her hands into the sud-filled sink of hot water. As she began the mammoth task of this evening’s dishes, she absentmindedly stared through the kitchen window, her glazed expression finally falling into focus on the far right corner of the lawn, where several bruised and battered apples lay. It was apple carnage. Although commonplace for this time of year, Rosey’s eye twitched as her OCD-like inner clean-freak snapped to attention. She silently self-scolded – one job at a time.
Three clean plates later, Rosey’s mind returned to the stray, fallen apples. As she glanced down at the slightly emptier sink, she wished she was less like her busy, fussy, irritating mother and more like her laid-back, placid father. She just knew he would long outlive his highly-strung wife, defying the odds and Rosey had a horrid, niggling feeling he may well also outlive his only daughter. Thoughts banished, washing-up resumed, dead apples to-do.
Fifteen minutes later, as Rosey made her way across the perfectly manicured lawn, something was off. The apples were gone, someone had beaten her to it. Slightly confused, Rosey heard the familiar, ‘Yoo-hoo’ from over the right-hand fence.
“I just nipped over and did a spot of tidying for you, darling” said her mother. Her father lounged in his hammock, idly leafing through the latest paperback. “Knew you wouldn’t mind!”
The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, thought Rosey.