That there is no justice in the world I learned at ten.
Mother once cooked some epochally uneatable burda instead of soup: it seems that something of the products was ruined. With the scandal, despite all the tears and assurances that it was poison, made me eat a full plate, in my brother a small silk from a spoon poured half a portion. And here, finally, the children are fed, she pouches a plate for herself, tries... and with the words ‘what a shit’ she pouches her plate and the rest of the pot into the toilet! There is no justice in life, and the soup is a guarantee.