The Morning After the Night Before
Forbidden from the raucous party downstairs at an hour befitting our tiny little frames, the next day my sister and I awoke as fresh as two morning daisies.

Bouncing out of our angelic sleep, we went in search of mummy. Daddy worked at night, so he must never be awoken - particularly at the ungodly hour only very small children seem to be able to manage - but cautious investigation of the dragon's den revealed only one slumbering figure, and those stinky feet were definitely not mumsies.

Where could she be?

In the kitchen? No.

In the dining room? Nope.

In the garden? Little hands couldn't reach high enough to get to the key, but the glass door revealed a total absence of mum.

In the downstairs loo? Oh, there she is! We can see the light under the door! But why won't she answer our knocks? Keep knocking!

Tick tock, tick tock on the clock. No reply.

At a loss, we waddled our keening selves around and around, until the only place to go was the room that was oh-so forbidden last night - the lounge. Curtains drawn, so still cloaked in gloom, the detritus of one hell of a party unveiled itself before our uncomprehending eyes. Empty bottles colonised the big trestle table, along with discarded snacks - peanuts and crisps and strange cheese things. A bounty! But we were NOT supposed to touch.

Back to the bathroom we went, but there was still no reply to our hungry knocking. So we waited. And waited. AND WAITED.

Our grumbling stomachs growled at us. Remember how when you are young, 30 mins is an eternity? We had been utterly abandoned ALL DAY, and FOREVER! We must fend for ourselves, just like wild things - create a new society in our empty home; forge our own ways to survive! We would go make a child's paradise in our new lounge kingdom, with crisps and peanuts aplenty...! We would plan and mount a daring raid on that table top bounty; liberate it for our new regime...!

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My mum finally awoke. Vague thoughts of aspirin and tidying thronged her throbbing brain, alongside litigation promises against the makers of Babycham. Having fallen asleep on the loo for a whole hour longer than usual bratling-breakfast time, mum staggered toward the lounge feeling rather zombie.

Sadly, she staggered right back out as a large cushion smacked her right in the face with a 'whoopmf'.

It was shrapnel - my taller sister had unjustly sealed herself (and the food) in a Sofa Cushion Fort of Girlie Evilness; my many poo, bum and wee-based insults only hardened the tyrants resolve. I maintain my throw cushion barrage was mere judicious force.

That was a sharp end to our Lord of the Flies management of the lounge; a ballistically thrown cushion smacking my mothers face neither helped her hangover nor her temper.

But from the safety of an anonymous internet forum, I would like to state that my sister is a complete wee-wee breath bum-face, and you can't tell I said so.
(IChewCandlewax, Tue 1 Mar 2011, 13:51, 3 replies)

hyperbole and a half called.
she wants her prose style back.
( janet aylia y'all motherfuckers need jesus, Tue 1 Mar 2011, 14:31, closed)

If thats that cartoon about cake...
..then it is high praise indeed.

CAKE. CAAAAAAKE.
(IChewCandlewax, Tue 1 Mar 2011, 14:56, closed)

benny? bennnyyyyyy?

( janet aylia y'all motherfuckers need jesus, Tue 1 Mar 2011, 15:07, closed)