The fatal mushroom

The mushroom was not fatal in an Agatha Christie way. It was more Shakespearian. If I had not so adored Rachael, and so wanted to cook her dinner, and had not so lusted after this lovely portabella mushroom, nothing terrible would have happened. I have long heard the witchy voices telling me to “Beware the parking lot of Trader Joseph!” I usually heed this warning and avoid that spot assiduously, walking blocks with huge gallons of milk rather than enter the dread portals. However, late at night when it is not crowded and seems more manageable, I venture in. As I was backing out of my spot, a horrid yellow pole-like thing – short and completely out or my range of vision- leapt out and smashed a dent in my lovely pristine car. I was devastated, as you can imagine.
Then ....... this morning, Rachael called and said not to cook her dinner, as she would have already eaten.