Small talk

Once more flying potato fragments splattered the Sunday papers prompting tears from baby.

The salesman checked his suit for food shrapnel.

“Funny to think that Tartar forces besieging the Black Sea port of Caffa flung infected war-dead over the stronghold walls using a weapon no more complex than your daughter´s spoon.” said the salesman. “Those merchants who escaped the results of this little tantrum unwittingly passed on the plague which killed millions.”

“For the third time,” said the mother. “Dry-cleaning bill – no!”

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