A birthday tradition.
|Wendy sipped her Earl Grey tea delicately, little pinky outstretched. In front of her, next to the teapot, a single scone crowned a bone china plate, waiting to be sliced and smothered in clotted cream and strawberry jam. She was contemplating that quintessential English dilemma. Jam or cream first? Devon people were cream first. Cornish put jam first. She compromised. Jam first on one half, cream first on the other. Then sighed over her indecision. In the end, they both tasted good.
It was a rare treat to have a cream tea, it had cost a fortune, especially when she paid a premium for a window seat. Real, clotted cream, as thick as putty, and strawberry jam, still with little, pitty lumps and scones, lightly browned, fluffy inside and slightly warm. Perfect. Hideously expensive but it was a special birthday.
'Now, then, Miss Wendy,' Bob, her carer, burbled in that strange voice that drove her bonkers, 'how are we managing? I'll cut your cake for you.' Bob's appendage slipped out.
'I,' Wendy emphasized the pronoun, 'am perfectly capable of cutting a scone and eating it.' She refilled her cuppa and added a fresh slice of lemon. Although the lemon was one of the artificial ones, it was near enough. 'Go park yourself in a corner and leave me be.' Bob hesitated as it processed the command, calculated the risk parameters and found the response. The pause was enough to irritate, Wendy flapped her hand as if to swat a fly. Not that there were any flies here. She missed flies. Bob decided to trundle off to the nearest corner.
Through the tiny window, she could see Devon, and there was Cornwall. It was sunset there. She missed sunsets. There were never any here at the Luna Bicentennial Plus Centre.