An elderly Scotsman lay dying in his bed. While suffering the agonies of
impending death, he suddenly smelled

the aroma of his favourite scones wafting up the stairs.


He gathered his remaining strength, and lifted himself from the bed.
Leaning on the wall, he slowly made his

way out of the bedroom, and with even greater effort, gripping the railing
with both hands, he crawled downstairs.



With laboured breath, he leaned against the door-frame, gazing into the
kitchen. Were it not for death's agony,

he would have thought himself already in heaven, for there, spread out upon
the kitchen table were literally

hundreds of his favourite scones.



Was it heaven? Or was it one final act of love from his devoted Scottish
wife of sixty years, seeing to it that

he left this world a happy man?



Mustering one great final effort, he threw himself towards the table,
landing on his knees in rumpled posture.

His aged and withered hand trembled towards a scone at the edge of the
table, when it was suddenly smacked

by his wife with a wooden spoon ..........

















"Fook off" she said, "they're for the funeral!"