Now, here Abby was, pulling on her coat to hide the ice-skating penguins on her well-worn flannels. Sitting on the side of her bed, she pulled on her knee-high boots, and then stood in front of the full-length mirror. Not an ice-skating penguin in sight. Her Nanna would be proud. It was mid-morning, yet still quiet as people lay sleeping their Sunday away. No need for urgency; “Sunday Spent” she liked to call it. Abby opened her front door, brandishing an umbrella on one arm, her bag on the other, and was greeted by a tiny mountain of discoloured leaves left for her by the wind. Stepping over it, she noticed these little parcels at most people’s doors, along footpaths and street corners; the colours of the deadened leaves dull beside the arresting brightness of discarded chocolate wrappers and other bits of rubbish. The greying sky grew heavier, having the appearance of hanging closer to the rooftops. Clouds sat motionless; sedentary with weight, their bellies bloated with threatening rain. Abby rushed along the near empty street and turned into High street, her mind set on the mission at hand. Today was “Sunday Spent” and with it came the need for a few necessities. On arrival at the Supermarket, Abby searched the aisles for the ingredients to her Maple Syrup dumplings. In the baking section, she cursed her tiny stature as she reached for the self-raising flour, too high above her head. Nearby, a young stock boy came to her assistance. As they both reached up, him with little difficulty, he glimpsed an ice-skating penguin escape from the cuff of her coat. Awkwardly, she thanked him and with the expected apathy of a teenager, the boy shrugged his shoulders and went back to work.
Abby entered her apartment and stripped off her coat, fully exposing ice-skating penguins. Placing the ingredients on the table, she set to work. Dumplings lowered delicately and left to simmer in sauce, she kicked off her boots, entered her bedroom and pulled back the bedcovers.
The smell of syrupy sweetness in the air, she spooned out the dumplings; plump clouds of buttery goodness, bathed in a delectable sauce. The rain started as she nestled into her bed, bowl in hand. She smiled at what she knew to be true: Meals eaten in bed are not just for sick days. 52