Pushing bread.

The milk in my teacup squirms as the tea-leaves try to grope their way into its creamy smoothiness. Sometimes, I think the statistical chances of a person ruining these chai-soaked, breezy December mornings is close to zilch. I mean, who knew that the istri-wallah would suddenly take it upon himself to ask for Christmas-baksheesh when he is as Christian as my potted bougainvilleas?