Demented mum: Hunt for hidden chocolate turns everyone into a fruit and nutcase
YOUR husband is irate. His chocolate has been stolen. Again.
It's true; you buy him a large bar every week when you do the shopping.
It's true; he hides it in a secret place in the top of the kitchen press and, alas, it's true that very week you find it and eat it.
You always eat it, he accuses.
You most certainly do not, you lie.
Yes you do, he says gruffly.
You won't buy yourself a bar because it'll make you fat, so every Saturday you buy a bar of chocolate for him and you eat that instead.
He's sick and tired of going to his special hiding place at the top of the press and finding the crumpled empty wrapping.
He works hard all week, doesn't he?
There are men, he proclaims, who gamble, men who drink, men who frolic with strange women. He does none of these things -- his weekly treat is one lousy bar of Fruit & Nut.
This Saturday, though, he decided not to hide his chocolate in the press at all. Hah!
Instead, he cunningly carried it around in the pocket of his anorak.
But, he says resignedly, you still got at it.
You most certainly did not, you declare. You didn't know he'd sunk so low as to start carrying his chocolate around in his coat.
How pathetic is that?
As if with a full-time job, a house to run and a gaggle of children to look after, you had nothing else to do but rifle through his jackets for a bar of chocolate!
What planet does he think he's living on?
Of course, the coat trick explains why you couldn't find the chocolate when you went hunting for it in the press yesterday. But you don't tell him that.
Your husband sulks. You fold your arms. The Wolverine walks in looking unusually cheerful.
"Hi guys," she says brightly.
Your husband considers his eldest daughter grimly.
"Did you steal my chocolate?" he demands.
"From inside the old teapot in the top shelf of the press? Nah," she chortles, and makes for the door.
A faint suspicion rings at the back of your mind.
"Get back here," you demand.
The Wolverine stops in her tracks.
"Did you, perhaps, take a bar of chocolate, not from the press, but from the pocket of Dad's anorak?" you inquire.
Her eyes slide from you to your husband, assessing her chances.
"Well, yeah, I s'pose I did. It was just, like, there."
Your husband stands up and stamps out to the shed.
"Eh, sorry," says the Wolverine.
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