While suffering the agonies of impending death, he suddenly smelled the aroma of his favourite cheese scones wafting up the stairs. He gathered his remaining strength, and 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 both hands, he crawled downstairs.

With laboured breath, he leaned against the door frame, gazing into the kitchen.

Were it not for death's agony, he would have thought himself already in heaven, for there, spread out upon waxed paper on the kitchen table, were dozens of his favourite scones. Was it heaven? Or was it one final act of heroic love from his devoted Irish wife of sixty years, seeing to it that he left this world a happy man?

Mustering one great effort, he threw himself towards the table, landing on his knees in a rumpled posture. His parched lips parted. He could almost taste the cheese scone before it was in his mouth, Seemingly bringing him back to life.

The aged and withered hand trembled on its way to the nearest scone at the edge of the table, when his hand was suddenly smacked with a spatula by his wife ............... F**k off" she said, "They're for the funeral!"