A Concerned Son

I think Mum might be dead. She’s been in that chair for weeks, never moves, never eats the meals I fetch. And to be honest she’s a bit whiffy too now, a sickly sweet smell that you can even notice in the parlour. Worst of all, there’s a puddle of ooze by her feet. God knows what it is, all I know is that it stinks worse than Mum. For some reason that doesn’t put Tiddles off as she loves to lick it up. Though she gets it on her paws and traipses it round the house she does. She’ll be getting banned from coming on my bed if things don’t change soon.

Apart from Tiddles, bluebottles love my Mum, always sitting on her face, disappearing into her mouth [which she never closes these days] and flying up her dress. I found some maggots in her hair the other day and tried to brush them out, but the bristles got all tangled in her perm at one point and pulled off her scalp a bit. I patted it back best I could.

Worst of all, she’s gone this funny colour like blue marble which doesn’t suit her one little bit.

I’m going to have to do something soon, find out if she is really dead. I know that what I should do is take her pulse but I fear that if I do that, her hand will fall off.


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