It was Sunday. Despite still felt the side effect of watching World Cup at TV, I woke early this day. Nothing to do outside though the day was really nice and fine, and no feeling of sleepy after a while of try to sleep again, so I chose of taking bath (again, it's an extraordinary thing for Sunday), and then picked one of books in my shelves. My finger stopped and pointed at Agatha Christie's Five Little Pigs. I do have lots of collection of this my favorite author and it's my own pleasure to repeat reading her books more than one or three times?
As companion, I made a mug of coffee, put it aside of my bed - my bed lies on the carpet exactly on the the floor- laid myself on bed, and starting to read. What a life! Coffee and book. I can't expect more than that. The book itself tells about the greatest detective - Hercule Poirot - and his case of digging out 16 years old-murder case - to help a very fine mademoiselle who wanted a truth about her parents. As always happens when I read Christie's books, it goes on, the curiosity going bigger and bigger, and the thrill cannot make me stop.
At a point in time, my eye stuck at the last pages while the mug of coffee standing - almost half empty - beside the book that I hold in joy of finding who is the murder (my guess was absolutely gone wrong, and it frequently happens), I made a sudden move of sitting. Voila! The mug was leaned fast, and before my hand could catch it up, it felt down, spreading its black liquid on my orange bed sheet.
It was all a sudden. The quickest idea and move I could do was reaching out my box of tissue and dried the spilt - still with my other hand holding the book. After that, a realization had entered my gray cells in my brain, because it's not the only time I spilt coffee or tea on my bed or my sister's bed, namely my mother and my sister would scream of the bed sheet due to the spilt, yet I only feel disappointed of my precious half coffee!
Have a nice day everyone :)
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