There came a moment when stomach couldn’t put up with it anymore.  

Enough already he shouted up to teeth, as another big chunk of food came crashing down into him, You know I can’t handle such big bits. And I thought you were my friend. Some friend!  

I’m sorry, said teeth miserably.  What can I do – I want to send the stuff down in little pieces the way you need it, but the boss won't let me do my job properly.  

Won’t let you do … won’t let …, spluttered stomach.  I’m welling up. I can’t do anything with these big pieces. Most of the food is wasted. His whole body will suffer. Doesn't he know how bad this is for him!  

It doesn't seem like it, said teeth. The two were quiet for a while.  Let's ask brain, said teeth.  Maybe he can think of something.  

Hmm, said brain, Okay. I understand. We've somehow got to get the boss to know how much harm this is doing him.  He thought for a while.  Maybe, he said slowly, maybe we should speak to gran’pa. Maybe he can think of something. 

So they spoke to gran'pa, and he sat down and wrote this. He also promised to talk to his grandchildren. Let’s hope that helps! 

 

 

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About the author

Mike Porter

Mike Porter was born in South Africa. In Johannesburg he became a newspaper reporter on the Rand Daily Mail, besides writing for the Sunday Times, Zionist Record and, years later, for the EP Herald...
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