YOUR CLUB AND MINE AN OPEN PAGE

Sun (Auckland), Volume I, Issue 278, 14 February 1928, Page 4

YOUR CLUB AND MINE AN OPEN PAGE

Each Tuesday afternoon a corner will be reserved for original contributions of general interest to womenfolk. The subject matter is for you to choose—whatever topic interests you may also be of interest or amusement to others, whether it be about your hobbies, experiences, or merely amusing musings about the ordinary round of the day. A book prize is offered weekly for the best effort, which should be brief, plainly written, and sent to “Your Club and Mine,” The Sun, Auckland. The prize has been given this week to Mrs. J. A. Colhoun, Burnside Avenue, Mount Albert, for the following article: This week the prize has been awarded to “Pollyanna” for the following article: GOOD INTENTIONS After being hors de combat for some little time, I now realise that my health is normal again, and, being secretly tired of malingering, I decide to launch forth, and fake up my ordinary duties as usual. No more breakfasts in bed for me! No! Instead, I shall get the family breakfast myself this morning. What’s the time Seven! Ah, well, if I am going to get up, I suppose I had better “do it now,’ as per office advice. Perhaps, though, I could steal another five minptes. Oh, goodness! why do I feel so sleepy this morning, and ilsn't bed nice? I snuggle down. Ten minutes later I open one eye and find that my respite of five minutes has doubled itself. I groan and shut my eye, but open it again quickly, also my other lazy eye, and watch the clock with guilty fascination for 13 minutes. Then I realise that I really must get up, so, after another 15 minutes or so I make a wild spring out of be<L My day has started, and the morning rush has begun. Now* what shall I prepare for breakfast? I have not a minute \.o think. Ido wish I had planned the meal last night, or else had risen earlier. Well, porridge is always safe, so I’ll start on that. As I reach for the creamoata, I glance at the clock. Heavens! it can’t be right. I’ve no time to make porridge. 1 have the lunches to cut, so I reach for the bread instead, and hack off a dozen slices or so. Now, if there is one thing I hate, it is cutting lunches. If you have cut them every day for years and years as I have, you will understand my horror of the wretched things. What to use for a “filling,” so as tc. have a variety, is the ever-recurring problem. However, I manage to concoct a tasty selection. Feeling quite proud of my efforts, I happen to glance at the clock again. Oh dear! oh dear! the breakfast should be half consumed by now. I am afraid I will have to resort to boiled eggs. What a blessing it is that the hens at least are doing their duty to the country. Of course, once those eggs are in the water, and jiggling merrily, I forget all about them, with the inevitable result that they are boiled hard—ves, very, very hard. Twenty minutes later I sat, alone, exhausted, and attempt to finish my morning meal. The various members of the family have rushed off after gulping a hurried breakfast, most of which I fear was swallowed unchewed. The tea is cold, and I don’t fancy my egg. I think, perhaps that after all I am not as well as I had thought. I simply can’t faG© dishes and housework to-day, and as for getting pinner ready to-night—no, I’m off back to bed. I find I need a thorough rest. POLLYANNA.