“Would you like a scone?” I asked Rod, a couple of days ago.
“Scone? You don’t make scones,” he replied.
“You always say you can’t make scones.”
In fact, what I’ve always said is that I can’t make scones as well as my mother. I can make them, I do make them (someone’s memory is very selective!) but the quality varies, while I grew up eating Mum’s scones which were always perfect.
A few years ago I entered a poem in a competition. It was short-listed and I was invited along to the presentation day. Before she announced the winner, the judge spoke about each poem on the short-list. She was quite complimentary about my effort but it was clear she had a completely different idea about just what it was about, even though it wasn’t particularly abstract and had several lines contradicting the judge’s assessment. It didn’t win and I have to admit my pride in being short-listed was somewhat eroded by the judge’s misinterpretation.
Stories and poems mean different things to different people but sometimes no matter what is said, the reader, will only half read the words and miss the point 😦
And the scones? Not too bad . . . not as good as Mum used to make but quite presentable 🙂