My acquaintance, like many inhabitants of the metropolis, has a headache: elderly gardener parents. This spring, his daddy and his mommy, in the midst of a burial, dug potatoes on a village garden plot. To the nearest small town there are fifteen to twenty kilometers, buses traditionally do not go, bring food and take the parents son, and if they do not come, they have to for money to catch a ride and get to the railway station.

And here the son on Friday evening did not go to the village, because from Thursday the rain began, it was already late, it was ugly and the road to the village itself goes next to the cemetery, where before the entrance on the broken imitation of the stop the local bukharians gather. I decided to go in the morning. And the father had to get blood from his nose into the city to his sister that evening, to give her garden supplies, because she had to start her own agricultural Armaghedon on Saturday morning.

It rained like a cane, there was no son, waited until the last. It’s dinner, we have to pick up the car. Nothing to do, gathered a bunch of nursing inventory, took
500 rubles, squeezed into the old coat-bar, remaining from the days of service, and popped through the field to the road. My wife stayed at home.

Daddy returned a couple of hours later, evil, as a devil, without dressing up, he blasphemes, saying the locals were completely out of the ground, the money is obviously not needed by them, not a single scapegoat stopped, did not drive. Even the villagers, who wanted to ask for a drink to warm up, ran out of the stops, somehow suspiciously trembling. I ran for two hours along the road and voted in vain, bored, cold, turmoil, and as a result had to go back.

The wife looked with an assessing look, silently, and then let us roast: "You, balbes, just like you stand, look in the mirror!"

He turned to the trumbo and himself twisted, the following picture is reflected in the mirror, which is illustrated by the imagination. The evening. The Thunder. Entrance to the cemetery. Something in a black coat aka ballahone, the cap under the rain is pulled to the nose, and in the hand... hair!

The best customer for the bomb! On the other hand, the kids, on the other hand... (c)