beetroot + ribena - she'll never know it was me
a long, long time ago, back in the day when a little nightbuffalo was just a little bit littler, said family were sitting around the dining table, eating a salad on one of those carefree, hot summer days of my childhood that now seems like a golden age.

I picked up my fork, leant forward and reflected on the feast that lay before me.

I had eaten all the chicken.
Hell, I had consumed ALL the tasty stuff (the chicken).

What's left? My eyes survey the platter of mother's goodness. Some pasta rip-off of potato salad. Eurgh. Celery. FFS. Lettuce, tomatoes. Beetroot. Effing vegetables.

"How much more do I have to eat before I can finish?" I asked.

"Ten more mouthfuls," replied my mum.

"Oh, fuksoxs, you fuknuckle," I most certainly did not think at the time.

"I shall attack the beetroot," is probably what I thought. And I did attack that obstacle between me and my bicycle, or some such toy-related fun.

I stick my fork in to the red beast.

It jumped clean four inches in the air and landed with a satisfying "plop" into my sister's cup of ribena, and no-one noticed.

Damn, my carefree days became a little more carefree-less. Sugar! What to do, what to do?

The options - own up, or sit there, sweat it out and hope she didn't notice.

I sweated it out.
She noticed.

Big sisters can slap surprisingly hard.
Little brothers can cry surprisingly loudly.
( nightbuffalo needs more duct tape, Wed 24 Sep 2008, 1:07, Reply)