An elderly man lies dying in his little bed, while suffering the agonies of impending death, when he suddenly smells the aroma of his favourite treat, freshly made Welsh cakes, wafting up the stairs from the kitchen.
He gathers his remaining strength, and lifts himself from his bed. And, leaning on the wall, he slowly makes his way out of the bedroom, and with even greater effort, gripping the railing with both hands, he slowly crawls downstairs.
With laboured breath, he leans against the kitchen door frame, gazing through watery eyes into the kitchen. Were it not for Death's agony, he would have thought himself already in heaven, for there, spread out upon waxed paper on the kitchen table, were dozens of freshly made Welsh cakes, just out of the oven and cooling slowly.
Is he in heaven? Or is it one final act of love from his devoted Welsh Wife of sixty years, seeing to it that he leaves this mortal world a truly happy man?
Mustering one great final effort, he throws himself towards the table, landing on his knees in a rumpled posture. His aged and withered hand trembles as it moved slowly towards the closest Welsh cake, possessing extra raisins - his favourite ones - laid out neatly at the edge of the table, when it is suddenly smacked by his wife with a spatula.
"Feck off" she says, "they're for the funeral."
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