Her mouth pursed by a scaffolding of deep set wrinkles she looked on in wide-eyed stupefaction as I spooned another helping of warm sticky porridge into my mouth. Her attempt at subtle reprobation was upset every so often by a wet cluck. This was followed by a rapid upwards and sidewards shift of her head as her neck muscles sprang her cranium as far from the offensive breakfast material as possible. Her well-brushed hair tickled the portal to the fourth dimension.
Gently unnnerved by the disruption of the morning sacrament, I struck up conversationm keen to ease the strain on the gently vibrating scaffolding. “How long has he been here? What an accent!” The spotless nightdown ruffled every so slightly as the head sprung back on its hinge. “It’s normal…” my better half piped up before being cut off by a flash of adorned digits. “He’s not making an effort,” the scaffolding croaked.
I dug deep into my porridge, unearthing a hemispherical hunk of moulded oats before crucnhing on a slice of apple. The scaffolding fell back into place.