What do you get a lovely mum?

She always comes in ‘round three, so I notice. Quiet brown hair, quiet plain face, quiet shy voice, and loud as banshees crush. Thursdays and Fridays, regular as clockwork, she wanders in on ‘er lunchbreak, all alone, cheeks goin’ a tad rosy, and payin’ for a tour of one through the Maison. And Trudes is happy to oblige.

I always see the girl comin’ out of the tour with confetti in ‘er hair. Trudes doesn’t often give the shiny confetti. Usually it’s packin’ peanuts or feathers, if a dunk at all. Yessir, I been observin’ our satirical saleswitch, too, and what sorta pranks she pulls out the play on that quiet little witchling.

I see Trudes lookin’ at the clock now. It’s four after. Witch hasn’t come in yet. Trudes presses a button and somewhere in the Maison I distantly hear a bloke yelp, followed by a muffled slork. He’s just been slimed.

Then a rude sound chimes and Trudes looks up uninterestedly, her face hardly registering the brunette walkin’ quietly in and shuffling her feet as she looks a mo at a few of the wizarding pics of the clone’s and my past exploits. Trudes, leans an elbow on her desk, picks up a quill, flops the extravagant feather around in a seemingly bored manner, not looking at the girl.

Finally, the witch quits beatin’ around the bush and walks up to Trudes’ desk. “A tour for one please,” she says quietly, her face turned resolutely to her coin bag as she fishes out the exact change to hand Trudes. Then she keeps ‘er head down as she counts it all out, then hands it to Trudes. The saleswitch holds out ‘er hand, their fingers knock together for a mo and they look at each other. Girl’s cheeks go all rosy again and she bounces on the balls of ‘er feet as Trudes mumbles somethin’ ‘bout needing to clean up slime ‘fore she sends ‘er up.

Trudes presses a button, her finger slips, she presses it again, finger slips, she punches it in short, frustrated, spastic taps, and finally pins the pesky button with ‘er elbow. Her face is tryin’ it’s hard to turn beet red and is doin’ a damned good job.

“PACKLESBY!” she snaps into the desk. “Slime doesn’t clean itself! Get on it, eh? We got people waiting!”

She removes ‘er elbow, though seems as it’s stuck, so she picks at it with ‘er fingernail, which she doesn’t seem to have hardly any to spare to do it.

“Um…I can…” The witch reaches out, shrinks back, then lunges for the button and claws at it eagerly, makin’ short work of the button’s show of defiance. Then she busies herself puttin’ her coin bag away, her face trying now to match Trudes’.

I smirk and disappear back into the lafeteria.

"I heard Trudes yelling. Do we have to start the count over again? " Aley asks as I come in. He's already putting the Cornish Nasties out and is working on pan of it. He looks over at me. "She made it through a week this time."

“Got flustered,” I smirk. “Ever hear o’ Murphy’s Law?”

"What can go wrong, will go wrong. She owes us both seven sickles now."

“Too true,” I agree. “But the most important rule o’ Murphy’s Law is what can go wrong, will go wrong, and always when ya want it to happen least. And she wanted it least! You remember I told you ‘bout that brunette she fancies?”

Aley nods and plates some more Nasties. "You said she liked someone. Is she still having a hard time talking to her?"

“She actually got a few words in this time, ‘side from ‘be a mo’ or ‘go on in.’ And smooth-talker, she mentioned slime. Ah, bless.”

"Maybe we should cut it from seven to four sickles then? Can you get the macaroni and sneeze out? I have to finish these and it'll end up burning."

“Sure, you got it, Aley.” I open up the pot and look down into the slimy-lookin’ noodle dish. “Looks positively nasty,” I compliment. “You added something extra in?”

He just shakes his head. "Unless confusion can be added ," he says under his breath as he concentrates on the last bits of the Cornish Nasties.

“One of our favourite ingredients,” I say. “Was I scribblin’ again, or you got something on your mind?”

Aley stays quiet for a mo, and I think he's going to end up keeping it to himself (Which he does a lot, I've noticed), but he turns to me. "Just Mother's birthday," he finally admits. "I usually have a gift for her ready by now, but this time I can't figure out what to get her."

“Well, our mum always liked best somethin’ we made ourselves…” then after a second’s thought, add, “Least what the rest o’ the lot made for ‘er. Didn’t much fancy what Fred and I made ‘er. Hey now, I got an idea think she’d absolutely love!”

He gives me a grin. "I should be afraid to ask, but what?"

“Well, why don’t ya make ‘er a great big banquet. You know how much your mum loves ‘er food. Make ‘er all ‘er favs.”

Aley's eyes widen. "Not that many!" He exclaims. "I'd be in the kitchen with Piska all day... and she'd probably threaten to mutiny."

I laugh. “Okay, so then maybe a third of ‘er favs. If ya want, I can help ya come up with a menu should go together well, and wouldn’t have you plannin’ mutiny yourself.”

He nods. "I like that... you won't be too busy though will you? Her birthday is the fifteenth.”

“I figure if you write down all you can remember, we can figure out a good menu over a slow day or two here.”

"I'll ask Mom her favorites tonight.. or have Piska do it, so Mom won't get curious." Aley grins. "Thanks, George."

“No prob, Aley,” I say with a wink. “Glad I could help.”