Last year I had a fight with my wife. She said that I was spending too much money on books. I realized that she was right, and promised that I would no longer do this anymore. However, when I went to work, I saw a very interesting book in the kiosk. I haven’t bought anything this week, "I thought," If I write on this book: "For participating in an amateur play," my wife will not say anything. "
- So you participated in the performance, - the wife was surprised, - Why did I not see you?
“I had a balcony for Romeo and Juliet on my shoulders,” I replied.
In the next book I wrote: "With love and best wishes, your loving uncle Ted."
- What kind of uncle? , asked his wife, - Why am I not acquainted with him?
“Poor dear uncle,” I replied, “He has been giving me books since I learned to read.” He has been living in London for twenty years, and he has never left because of his health.
Then various writers began to give me their books out of love and respect for me. Once I came home with a book that Zola gave me. The wife was standing in front of the mirror - she was wearing a new dress.
- Did you buy a dress? - I asked.
“No,” she replied, “your friend gave it to me.”
- What friend? - I shouted.
- The one who gave you so many books - Charles Dickins.
Now it became clear why lately we had such bad lunches.
