When you’re a parent, you regularly come across surprising, sometimes alarming things. A couple of weeks ago I was looking through a cupboard, and I came across a notebook. I opened it and saw this:
After I had recovered from the initial shock, I felt a certain sense of relief that it was only one. I knew my daughter had been the last to use this notebook and so I asked her about it. She casually brushed aside my concern and said in a matter-of-fact way “Oh yes, that was when we were doing the Duke of Edinburgh award.” A number of questions came to my mind – Was this one of the requirements in order to pass the award? Does the Duke know? If she’d tried a bit harder, could she have managed more than one? I kept my questions to myself though because if I ask her more than one question at a time these days, I am accused of ALWAYS questioning her about EVERYTHING. That is our job though right?
Of course I have almost eaten a fly myself too; but then who hasn’t? I say ‘almost’ because I had only got as far as chewing it, I hadn’t swallowed it yet. I was about five, out on a picnic. I saw something black on the edge of my sandwich, just inside. I thought it was Marmite. It wasn’t Marmite. Marmite isn’t chewy and gritty like that. Next thing I was spitting out little black bits and pieces of wing. That was a substantial sized beast of a fly I can tell you, and when bits of fly get stuck in your teeth, they don’t come out so easily. Oh I’m sorry, am I going into too much detail now? Let’s move on…
…to another bug-in-food story. A while ago, eight of us from work had lunch out. There was a salad bar and we helped ourselves from it. Within a couple of minutes of each other, three of us found little caterpillars in our salad, one of my little fellas was actually making his way around the edge of the plate, with that ‘hump and straighten’ action which is kind of cute if it’s anywhere other than on your plate. We called the waitress over, and being British, we were all very apologetic about having found caterpillars in our food. She took our plates away, and we refused the kind offer she made to “Get the chef to wash the lettuce again for us”, instead opting to move on to dessert. At the end of the meal, she came and asked us, “Was everything alright?” We all laughed, assuming she was joking, but she remained straight-faced and asked again, more forcefully, “Was it? Was everything alright?” We realised that she seriously wanted an answer and so again, being British, we nodded and mumbled that it had all been very nice thank you.