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7:59am on Monday, 25th September, 2006:



Yesterday, my wife and younger daughter made a trifle. A damned good trifle it was, too. I really like trifles, but I rarely have them as they're usually laced with sherry or some other poisonous liquid. Home-made ones can omit that ingredient, and therefore remain edible.

My elder daughter wasn't sure if she wanted to eat any of the trifle, as she'd had a bad experience during the summer. The school runs a yearly camping trip to Danbury, for pupils aged 11/12. This meant my younger daughter was going on it. My elder daughter also got to go, though, to act as a supervisor. One of the things she had to do was to dish out trifle one day, which she knew the chef had spent ages preparing for them as a special treat. A quick taste, however, revealed it was vile. Nevertheless, because the chef was ready to brim with tears at the joy on the children's faces as they tucked in, she had to eat some and make out that it was delicious. It left her with deep, mental scars.

When she recounted this, my younger daughter said that actually she liked the trifle, there was nothing wrong with it, and she'd have eaten more if they'd have let her.

Thus began an argument involving terms such as "mixed-fruit mush" and "dreamy creamy custard".

When it was over, I said, "Well, that's what I call a tiff!".

"What do you mean?" came the reply.

"A tiff", I said. "An argument over a trifle".

Ah, sometimes it just goes to script.

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Copyright © 2006 Richard Bartle (richard@mud.co.uk).