Don’t ask me how I got on that train. It doesn’t matter, as is the fact that the time from yesterday’s evening is running completely idiotic for me. It is important that a grandmother stepped into the wagon from the station "Vyšší Voloček". No, not that grandmother.
She had everything that belonged to such a woman from the city with this name: a moherous take down over a colourful cloth, puffy balloons and a puffy grandson, a young man of twelve years, destined to run for balloons.

After realizing that, "according to the tickets purchased", the relative would sit next to him, the grandson was delighted. But the bull lashed the luggage on the upper shelf - the response to the offer of help was harsh "Don't bite!". She looked around the wagon, picked the victim – it was a madman who offered help with the luggage – and:

Noah, go to there.

The victim once realized that it was not a proposal, and released the space. Stumbling her grandson into a chair by the window, the grandmother said:

Let us eat.

The grandson pulled his head into his shoulders. And in a second the whole car, as well as the surrounding villages, which the "sapsan" flies at a speed of 200 kilometers per hour, understood why.

The grandmother opened the mattress bag, casting the smell of Kotlet into the atmosphere. Following them, a bowl of cooked potatoes and a litre bank of salty cucumbers were wrapped in a towel. Of course, cut bread and a bunch of green onions.
“Happiness will be salt in a spark box,” my neighbor predicted, looking too young and fashionable to remember such details of Soviet journeys, looking at Babka with superstitious horror.

“Chocolate, what’s not going to be,” I also quietly replied.

I don’t know what I was thinking about making this obviously losing bet. Salt has appeared.

“I’m not hungry,” said the grandson hopelessly. I want to drink here. Where is my car?

“Compot,” the grandmother cut off. I cooked on the way. Eat the NOK.

The grandson pulled to the stove, scratched his hands and after a moment got the same stove with potatoes and bread. Snoring, I stood in the window.

“Nuke cucumbers,” the grandmother ordered. And the eggs.

My neighbor and I, who, by the way, nobly shared the winning chocolate with me, walked out for Grandma. She looked at the mountain and asked:

Where are the eggs?

Even confusion was heard in her voice.

Where did the eggs go?

And although they were obviously not asking us, we for some reason split our hands. I don’t know, I didn’t take, nothing to do with it.
Grandma began to get angry.

I cooked eggs in the morning, five pieces, hot. and where?

We quietly sackled.

My child is hungry! The grandmother cried.

For the next ten minutes she turned her balls into the passage, and the whole wagon listened to the heart-breaking story of the missing eggs, five pieces, cool, and the hungry "rabbit", which at this time chewed the cocklet with Olympic calm.

A woman with a baby appeared in the passage.

Then come, the grandmother cried out.

We need to change the pampers. The woman was upset. He has kicked!

The grandmother stood up from the bowls and, stirring the baby with a frog’s gaze, spoke literally the following:

Picked – that is to say, eaten! Do I die of hunger??? The eggs are gone!

“She’s a troll,” my neighbor admired.

“Sorry,” a woman with a baby stumbled, “I didn’t know you also have a little child...I’ll go to another car.
And then the "little child" made a sound that makes 100 percent of adult men after a glass of beer.

I couldn’t hold back anymore, my neighbor and I cried out.

A guide appeared:

What is happening here with you?

It is not your business! The grandmother whispered, recording the balls back. Probably accepted the loss. She splashed into the chair and answered her granddaughter a light but offensive necklace. - And you eat, or my mother will say, I will hunger you!

And then the grandson, who was obviously tired of feeling the wordsless Christmas goose, rose up. He cried out and turned to the guide with a secular tone:

Sorry for Grandma. She lost five of her eggs and is a little nervous.

If Grandma said something, we didn’t hear it: the wagon stumbled so that it seemed that even the windshield outside the window stopped.

You probably think that the next was, as I often do: we talked with Grandma, and it turned out that she was not a Grandma, but a soloist of the Big Theatre, a thin, intelligent and sometimes a violinist, and I just didn't immediately look at it.

by KMM.

We talked about, yes. Taking my gaze toward the remains of the feast, the grandmother asked:
Didn’t they pick up on the road?

I did not collect, I blamed.

“Well, sit now, don’t grumble,” the grandmother replied. The sheep are handless.