Look it up, Jess. Ooh! It sounds good, Dad, it has alcohol and cream and sugar and eggs and nutmeg! Can I make some?
She does, it goes into the fridge and she disappears off to Folweni. So I’m sitting with a big batch of whisky eggnog in my fridge. What to do?
A few days later I spy the Jungle Oats in the pantry and aha! My Scottish blood rises along with me kilt and I think ‘porridge’ and make a big bowl of steaming hot oats and drown it in cold eggnog and add sugar, eating it the Scottish way: HOT porridge, cold milk, lots of sugar, don’t stir, let it mix in your mouth.
Egg, bacon, tomato, black coffee and binoculars. Thanks, Cecelia!
The flying ants were trying to pair up and scurry off and mate after shrugging off their wings, but the ants were nabbing them. The ants, in turn were being robbed by the birds and a skink. They’d grab the juicy termite, flick hard, separating the ant, then peck up and gobble down the termite. Termites taste like butter, ants taste like acid.
I had scrambled egg, the kingfisher had a snake, thoroughly tenderised. He bashed it repeatedly till he thought it was definitely dead, then swallowed it head-first. It looked like a small red-lipped herald maybe.
I woke up this April Fool’s Day to a strange sight – Two baleful yellow eyes staring at me over a bright orange beard. I thought it was a hungover Irish leprechaun and tried to think where I’d been last night.
Turned out it was two fried eggs and a big helping of warm baked beans on a plate brought to me in bed by my ever-loving daughter Jessie for a birthday treat!
I’m sitting up drinking my tea plotting how to smuggle Sambucca the black Labrador in to polish off what’s left on the plate.