The Great Crisp Caper

I am reminded of the reason that Wiltshire Towers is a crisp free zone, and why coming to work, although dull, tiring and hateful means that I may, at the very least, scoff crisps to my heart's content.

Where t'midgets' diet is concerned, I am a "bit" of a nutrition nazi, or as much as I am able to be (autism brings its very special slant on eating due to sensory issues with taste, textures et al). 

However, the rules are that, at least three times a year, the kids can eat what they want all day.  This is generally on Christmas Day and on their birthdays (the pressure of a Christmas dinner is too much for both of them, so we feast on tinned Roses' sweets and party snacks for the duration).

This year, The Boy picked a 36 bag multipack of blue crisps, blue quite literally being the only colour for him at present.

These were carefully stashed away in the secret Christmas snack cabinet.  I was careful never to be seen entering or leaving the area by either midget, who are eagle eyed where contraband is concerned.  The cupboard's contents expanded, and there was a plentiful supply of empty calories and sugar within reach od our collective clammy paws.

The last day of school comes around, and we return to Wiltshire Towers.

It Is Time. The stash may be started, and it can be distributed (in drips and drabs) through the holiday period, remembering of course that it is to last the entire time.

I move into the room and return with a packet of crisps for The Boy and Lid.  I am not aware that Lid has seen me.  I suppose I should have seen it coming from there, but of course I didn't.  I pass Lid her crisps, she thanks me, and tells me she wants to put them in a bowl.

Into the kitchen she trots.  The Boy and I are talking about the philosphical issues surrounding Father Christmas, his questions rapidly fired in my direction. He is only missing a bright light to shine into my face as he questions me.  I am suddenly aware of the worst sound a parent can hear; silence.  I dash into the kitchen, and there she is.

A very hyperactive three year old, full of cheese and onion MSG, surrounded by 35 crisp packets.  She has a slightly stoned look, and it is clear that all she can see are multitudes of crisp packets dancing before her eyes in a hallucugenic haze.

It is a valiant effort on her part.  She has dragged a chair to the room, climbed up on it, balanced on it to retrieve the contraband, made her way down and painstakingly opened and scoffed the bloody lot. In less than ten minutes, which is particularly impressive.  All that is missing is her rolling around on the packets, like Demi Moore in "Indecent Proposal".

I can't tell her off for this, as it's my fault for not keeping an eye on her.  I do put a mini ban on crisps at Wiltshire Towers as a result.

I pick her up, and she mumbles something incoherent.  I can't be sure, but I think she has just said that she loves me and I am her beeesssht mate...