Just Annoying! (12 page)

The sauce bottle goes flying. It clatters across the kitchen floor. It comes to rest next to the fridge, spinning slowly.

‘I told you that would happen,' says Mum.

But Dad ignores her. ‘Are you trying to tell me that ants would be able to kill me faster?'

‘You're assuming that the lions will have claws,' I say.

‘Well what
do
they have? No teeth, no claws? Are they blind, deaf, dumb and paralysed as well? Why don't I just eat myself and save them the trouble?'

‘Now you're the one being silly,' I say. ‘Eating yourself is not an option. It's ants or lions.'

Dad shakes his head. He gets up from the table and picks up the sauce bottle.

Jen screws up her face.

‘This mashed potato tastes funny,' she says.

‘What's wrong with it?' says Mum.

‘It's sweet.'

Jen picks up the salt grinder. She examines it closely.

‘Does this salt look right to you?' says Jen.

‘Pass it over here,' says Mum. She holds the grinder up to the light. ‘It's sugar,' she says.

‘Andy!' says Jen.

‘Yes, Jen?' I say innocently.

‘Did you do that?'

‘Do what?'

‘You know very well what.'

‘What?'

‘Fill the salt grinder with sugar!'

‘No,' I say. It's not a lie, either. I only half-filled it.

Mum sighs. ‘Go and get another serve,' she says. ‘There's plenty more in the pot.'

‘It's not the point,' says Jen. ‘He should be punished. Dad, Andy filled the salt grinder with sugar and now my dinner's wrecked.'

‘And there's no chance to escape?' says Dad.

‘Huh?' says Jen.

‘I'm talking to Andy,' he says.

‘No,' I say. ‘There's no escape. None at all.'

I poke my tongue out at Jen. Dad is more interested in my hypothetical than in her whingeing.

‘Well, that's not very sporting,' says Dad. ‘People don't want to go along and see helpless people being eaten by ants and lions week in, week out.'

‘I would,' says Jen. ‘Especially if it was Andy being eaten.'

‘Nonsense!' says Dad. ‘You'd get bored. You wouldn't want to go to the footy to see Carlton thrash Collingwood every week, even if you were a Carlton supporter. You need to give the underdog a bit of a chance to keep it interesting.'

 

‘Maybe,' I say, ‘but you're assuming it's a public spectacle.'

‘It's not?' says Dad.

‘No. Nobody's watching. It's just you and the lions. Or the ants.'

Dad looks puzzled.

‘Then what's the point?'

‘I don't know,' I say, ‘but it doesn't matter. The point is to answer the question.'

‘I've answered your question,' he says. ‘I said I would rather the lions.'

‘Is that your final answer?' I say.

‘Yes, as long as they're efficient, I'll take the lions.'

That's not an answer—there's no guarantee.'

Dad picks up the sauce bottle again, turns it upside down and starts slapping the bottom with the palm of his hand. A couple of red drops splatter onto the plate and the tablecloth.

‘You'll end up with sauce all over yourself if you don't watch out,' says Mum.

 

‘Jen?' I say.

Jen shoots me a mean look. ‘If you're going to ask me whether I'd rather be eaten by ants or lions then forget it.'

‘I'm not going to ask you whether you'd rather be eaten by ants or lions.'

‘Promise?'

‘Cross my heart, hope to die, hope to stick a pin in my eye.'

‘Okay, what?'

‘Would you rather be eaten by lions or ants?'

Jen points her fork at me. ‘You just broke your promise.'

‘No I didn't.'

‘Yes you did. Now you have to stick a pin in your eye.'

‘No I don't.'

Jen gets up from the table.

‘Where are you going?' says Dad.

‘To get a pin,' she says. Jen turns to me. ‘Would you rather a long sharp one or a short blunt one?'

‘Nobody will be sticking pins in anybody's eye at this dinner table!' says Mum.

‘But he broke his promise,' says Jen.

‘No, I didn't,' I say. ‘I promised I wouldn't ask you if you'd rather be eaten by ants or lions.'

‘But you did,' says Jen.

‘I didn't. I asked you whether you would rather be eaten by
lions or ants.'

‘Same thing!' says Jen.

‘No it isn't.'

‘Is so.'

‘Jen,' I say. ‘Whether or not I broke my promise, and whether or not I would prefer a long sharp pin to a short blunt pin or a short blunt pin to a long sharp pin is irrelevant. The real question is whether you would rather be eaten by lions or ants.'

‘You broke your promise,' she says. ‘And you made me pour sugar all over my dinner.'

There's no point asking Jen. She's too bitter. And Dad is too interested in the sauce bottle to give me a serious answer. That leaves only one person.

‘What about you, Mum?' I say. ‘What would you rather?'

‘Oh, I don't know.'

‘What don't you know?' I say. ‘It's a very simple question. What more do you need to know?'

‘Well,' she says. ‘Why is this happening to me? What have I done?'

‘It doesn't matter!'

‘I think it does. If I'm going to be eaten by ants or lions, I want to know why.'

‘It's the choice that's important,' I say.

‘But how can I make a sensible choice if I don't know why I've been put there in the first place?' says Mum. ‘Am I being punished or have I just been picked at random?'

I sigh. Mum can be very stubborn.

‘Okay,' I say. ‘You're being punished.'

‘What for?'

‘Mum!'

‘Well, I need to know what I've done. That way I can decide whether the ants or the lions are the more appropriate punishment.'

‘But how does it change things?'

‘Well, suppose I committed a whole lot of small crimes. I think the ants would be the best punishment. But if I did something really bad, something really big—then I think the lions would be the best.'

‘Okay,' I say, ‘but suppose you did lots of small crimes and a couple of really big ones as well. What then?'

‘Then I think both ants and lions would be appropriate.'

‘No, but you have to choose one.'

‘But I would deserve both.'

‘But which one would you prefer?'