“Met anyone?”

“Anyone special?”

I brushed them away.

“Too busy. Exams. Labs.”

Aunt-ennae vibrated.

“Grasshoppers who work all mating season die alone in winter.”

“You’re making mountains out of aunt-hills!” I retorted, laughing as they scuttled off.

But tonight, as I munch leftover sandwiches, why do I suddenly feel… aunt-sy?

Joanna Norland dedicates this story to her beloved Aunts Tiby (RIP) and Roberta. If worry be the (picnic) food of love, I was a very well fed niece. xx