By Myron Lysenko
On my way home from a day trying to teach grammar to Year Nine boys, I stopped at the market. My wife had told me to buy apples which were ready to eat now; not the kind that sat around for days. That’s what happened last time. So I picked up each apple, looked it over, and pressed it between my thumb and forefinger to see that it was ripe. They were Golden Delicious, my wife’s favourite. Last month I bought Granny Smiths by mistake. She hates them, because of the name rather than the taste. “I’m not a granny yet,” she yelled. She hasn’t been the same since I took her boxer for a walk without a leash and it got run over by an ambulance.
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