Until Sunday afternoon, White chocolate Malteasers were my favourite sweet in the whole wide world.
Not any more.
You see, Granny had put five of the milky white crunchy sweets in a bowl, and handed them to me. What a treat! And so I munched happily away for three mouthfulls. Then it happened.
"Can I have one, please?", said Mummy.
What am I to do? Hand already on its way to mouth with the fourth Malteaser - too late for Mummy to have that one. And so I looked at the fifth. There in my other hand, the chocolate begining to melt, promising to dissolve as deliciously on my tongue, and the crunch as crispily between my teath, as the rest.
But Mummy wants it. She said so. And Mummy is very good to me. She always makes sure that I start my tea before she starts hers. She breaks off bits of her cookie for me, she bakes me bananna bread.
But she eats more than me anyway. She doesn't need one of my Malteasers. Granny gave them to me. Why should I give one to Mummy?
But she's my Mummy. I love her. She gives me my milk every morning, and every evening before I go to sleep. Perhaps she needs White Malteasers to make my Milk?
Oh, what should I do?
It was too much for me. I burst into tears.
And then I squashed the Malteaser in my fist and threw it on the floor.
