Welcome back to Wot so Funee? and a happy new year to you. At the age of 8 my writing is not often funee in the original sense of the word. The Bug is beginning to produce regular funee snippets, so we are looking forward to showcasing his writing very soon. For now, we are laughing at Mummy’s expense, courtesy of moi!
As my writing is legible, and my spellings mostly correct, Mummy takes advantage by asking me to add to our shopping list. As she peels the last carrot, or drizzles the last dregs of olive oil, she sends me to write items down on our list. Sometimes I decorate the list while I’m there, or add my own requests, in the hope that she will absent-mindedly chuck Haribos into the trolley en route to the coffee. Other times I linger for a while, reading the list, checking for atrocious vegetables. This week I doctored it, based on a funee story I remember Mummy once telling:
I shall explain: I am a bizarre child; I like rice. Not just any old rice, none of your Uncle Ben’s light and fluffy for me! I want Tilda steamed basmati brown rice, 2 minutes in the microwave, I could eat a whole packet (as long as it is not spoiled with any kind of sauce)! So yay for Tilda rice. Yay also for treat cereal. We are not allowed sugary cereal in our house, so treat cereal is Coco Pops or Golden Nuggets. We’re allowed one bowl, on a Saturday morning, then it’s back to the Weetabix.
But here’s the #funee: before we were born, Daddy, thinking he was being helpful, took it on himself to do the grocery shopping. Mummy, not liking the word “panty” always just writes “liners” on the shopping list. (Really, these days she could just write Tena, but that’s another story). Guess what Daddy bought? Livers. Chicken livers…