Can I just say it was probably a good job no one had the camera running......
Cubette has just had surgery to release two ectopic canine teeth and is wearing a very uncomfortable plate mounted dressing while the wounds heal. She can't eat very well, and is furious because her Mum and I went out for a posh meal on Saturday night, Cubester went to a party with some friends and she was left home alone with a Pizza. Ham and pineapple. Which she hates. Cubester has been taking the proverbial ever since, offering the excuse that he was trying to cheer her up. He's also been in a foul mood because his girlfriend has been in Anglesey over Easter. Add the enforced revision to the melting pot and you'll understand why they were a bit hyper.
It all came to a head at dinner time, when they started to argue over the last helping of trifle. He can best be described as an infuriatingly funny clown when the mood takes him, and he managed to get hold of the trifle container and hold it over his head out of her reach, whilst spooning chunks of jelly and whipped cream out and into his mouth. Cubette lost it and grabbed, of all things, a fondue fork out of the cutlery drawer and poked him with it. This earned her the last helping of trifle as he dropped it in order to grab the palette knife off the rack over the cooker. As she was scooping at the container he gave her a fair old thwack on her leggings.
Now, house rules are that they aren't supposed to hit each other, as he points out that she can hit him as hard as she likes, but he would probably hurt her if he hit back. In the event of a bit of banter like the above, if he lands a strike of any kind, she is allowed a free hit. He was wearing thick cotton trackies so I told him he should pull them tight so that her retaliatory thwack with the palette knife would have the same effect as his blow on her thin leggings. Hoping he would deter us from following it through, he informed us she could hit bare flesh, and he would drop his trackies altogether. Too late, we realised he wasn't wearing boxers, but by that time he'd grabbed the tea towel and was now girding his loins, so to speak. Mrs Cube somehow decided it was all my fault, and launched into a tirade of genetic blaming.
