‘Twas an hour before wake-up
And all through the house
Nothing was stirring
Or so we thought, until the sleepy Englishman banged his way downstairs to see who was in the kitchen, and discovered the missing chicken drumstick.
After
pork-gate yesterday, my Englishman and I had a wee chat with the Dark Princess. We reconfirmed that we are a team that cannot be divided, and we set down some ground rules. Amongst all the parent-y stuff like
‘thou shalt not play one off against the other’, and
‘thou shalt not eat all the resources that need to be divided fairly amongst the family’, and
‘thou mayest go with Jade to the movies later in the week if thou promises to be good..for ever!’; amongst all of this we set down some new operational rules.
One of these rules is that the children (hereafter known as ‘the kids’) shall not be admitted into the kitchen before the adults (hereafter known as ‘the long-suffering parents’) in the mornings. This rule is to try and stop food going missing. Until now, we have stumbled downstairs, bleary-eyed and wild-tongued to find no milk for breakfast, no bread for sandwiches, indeed Mother Hubbard’s cupboard completely emptied. It’s not the best way to start the day.
We explained patiently that I had roasted a chicken which would be the food du jour for the rest of the week’s packed lunches, and that under no circumstances, is the DP or anyone else to touch it. Hands Off!
Imagine our surprise when we were awoken at 6am with the cheerful sounds of Dark Princess getting ready for the day. (At least she’s pleased to be up and alive, I suppose). My Englishman patiently told her to go back to bed 3x. I (like a wuss) hid under the duvet. Finally he got up at 6.45 muttering that there was only 15 minutes until the alarm anyway. When I made my way to sacrifice an ese coffee pod at the machine, my Englishman pointed out the hobbled chicken.
‘It appears to have something missing’ he glowered.
‘Hmmm.’
Looking up I noticed the gaping hole where the chickens fine thigh and leg once was. I know it was there, I cooked it. But it appeared to have been surgically removed.
‘DP says Bailey did it’
Bailey, the 40kg eating machine, wagged her tail at the mention of her name.
I raised an eyebrow.
‘Funny that she neatly ate only the drum. She typically eats all of the bird and leaves only bones half-split open on the carpet.’
‘Isn’t it’, he sighed.
We must have the cleverest dog on the planet.
