The husband returned from night fishing and by the evening of the same day from the balcony, where he laid his clothes, was drawn by the unpleasant smell of decomposing organic matter, or, more precisely, the monthly sheep’s breeze at the final stage of disintegration under the May sun. I smelled all over the balcony, I cannot identify the source. The husband cries out, saying, it is not mine, look in your twists. She said that sooner or later I would find it and promised that if it had anything to do with fishing, I would make my husband eat it.
On the fourth day, the sting came such that I decided to hit the job, but to find this stinking cloak. After half an hour of breathing every millimeter of the balcony, already desperate and almost reconciled, accidentally raised her head (to pray?) and here on the upper shelf of the shelf detected a litre bank with soaked peanuts, corn and other hernia, shorter than some burlamajja.
After waking up, the husband saw a bowl, a spoonful and a smiling offer to start breakfast in bed. I apologize ?