Not smelling the Roses

Early evening and I walk through the door to be assailed by an unfamiliar aroma of a cauldron full of boiled cabbage, mildew and old musty telephone directories mixed with wood smoke and Mediterranean olives. I progress further inwards, clutching my handbag in some feeble attempt at self-preservation. The fumes get stronger as I approach the lair of my daughter.
“What’s that awful smell?” I ask without much hope of a sensible answer.
She looks up from her laptop and carpet of clothes to grin at me. 
“My new incense do you like it?”
“No, it’s awful. You need to open the window right now!”
“I really like it. It’s supposed to relax you and clear your sinuses.”
“Well I don’t feel very relaxed. I feel quite ill and you won’t have to worry about clearing your sinuses if we all expire from asphyxiation.”

I ask her if she has eaten as I am just about to cook some dinner. She informs me that she has finished the Mediterranean loaf of bread that I got for a bargain 10p last night and she had puy lentils in it, “Like a sandwich”.
Sounds delicious…not!

Teenagers.

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