Her Mum ran an old people’s home;
more used to unfussy eaters
and those that take their meals sloppy,
not like me –
the child with an aversion to anything milky.
“Who doesn’t like ice cream?
There’s children in Africa starving hungry,
I bet they’d give anything for a spoonful
of cool vanilla with strawberry sauce.
Stop being silly.
Just try some and you’ll soon be asking for more.”
But the slowly melting sight of the off white puddle
drained me cold.
I knew children were supposed to do what they’re told,
be polite when asked over for tea,
but there’d be no appeasing my tummy
if I swallowed that pasteurised catastrophe.
“We don’t eat this at home”, I quietly pleaded,
wishing Bernard’s Watch was real
so I could run for my freedom
from this feeding conundrum into the TV,
but time kept on tick-tocking
and Jenny’s Mum kept on nagging.
Oh how her smile started dropping
when she grasped there was no interrupting
my volcanic eruption of dairy destruction
from spewing its way back up.