Yesterday afternoon, I went to fetch my hidden stash of chocolate, only to discover that apparently, I had never been in possession of a hidden stash of chocolate. In hindsight, in the pantry, behind the lentils, would have been a better place to hide my jewellery from burglars than to hide chocolate.
I confronted the likely culprits. Raised voices and vehement denials ensued, as Kit concocted an imaginative tale about stoned midnight burglars with the munchies, who tidied up after themselves. When I pointed out how likely a story that was because the doors were all locked, he finally confessed.
He then petulantly asked why I didn’t just shut up and help myself to some of his roasted termite patties?
“Because I once saw a dog pass something more appetizing than those!” I spluttered, enraged.
“Well, you made them!” He said accusingly.
“I made them for you for a treat!” I objected.
“I know, and I appreciate the effort, but those patties are bloody awful. They’re like wild animal food, and I’m a tame animal. I was hoping you would eat them so I didn’t have to,” he admitted.
“Fine. We agree on something,” I conceded, “Let’s go feed them to a wild animal. But you can’t go replacing them in your diet with chocolate. I’ll make you something else healthy. How long did it take you to eat all that, anyway? You must have been at it for weeks.”
“Oh, no. It only took a few days,” he said, as His Dad quickly slipped silently out of the room, “I was just helping Dad.”
So Kit and I took an expedition to see if we could find a wild animal to eat the termite patties. His Dad would keep!
The magpies weren’t interested. Nor were the mudlarks. The kookaburras just laughed at us. Finally, we offered them to a passing dog, who to tried to bury them. It was not clear whether he wanted to bury food to hide, and come back to it later, or he just believed that excrement should be buried.
“I know!” Kit exclaimed, desperate to be rid of the offensive patties, but very aware that I would not let them go to waste, “Why don’t we take them home and feed them to Dad. We could chocolate coat them so he eats them by mistake, as a sort of punishment for eating your chocolate.”
“Well, you ate some of the chocolate, too,” I reminded him, “What’s your punishment?”
“How do you think I know how terrible the patties are?” he asked, “I already ate one; I’ve been punished enough!”