You have ruined porridge for me. Yes! I read your story when I was a kid. I sympathized with you when the lunch lady didn’t give you another serving. I don’t know when this transition took place. But I earlier liked porridge. And my mom makes it really really great. And over the time I lost appetite for it. I think it’s because of you.
It might sound funny and crazy, which it seems to me as well, as I’m writing this confession. But buddy, I can’t seem to undo this. Whenever my mother blackmails me into another roti, all I can ever think of is “what about Oliver, maa?” Do you also happen to zone out like I do over past fictional or non-fictional anecdotes that stirs uncomfort in your present?
This works like my conscience check. Keeps me rooted to good values imbibed over the years. Does it make sense now?
That’s all folks.
//Until next time.