What’s bugging you?

“What on Earth is that?”

“What’s what, Dad?”

“Come and look at this.”

“That larva?”

“Or whatever it is.”

“It’s a cockchafer grub, Dad.”

“Keep it away from me, then.”

“Why?”

“These trousers rub already.”

“What?”

“Look at it. It’s nearly as big as my hand.”

“You do have small hands, Dad.”

“I’m fed up with people telling me I have small hands. I do not have small hands. You can measure them against anybody’s.”

“Okay. Measure them against mine.”

“Against those gravediggers of yours? Of course mine will look small. Yours are enormous.”

“Have it your way, Dad.”

“Don’t I always?”

“Yes, Dad, you do. So what do you want me to do with the grub?”

“Why are you asking me that now? It’s only half past ten. You told me lunch is at twelve.”

“Not food, Dad, the grub. The cockchafer. Why are you wincing?”

“It’s that name. Fair makes my eyes water, it does.”

“Would it help if I called it by its other name?”

“What is it?”

“Its other name?”

“Yeah.”

“No idea.”

“So why mention it?”

“Sorry, I panicked.”

“I worry about you sometimes, you know.”

“Why?”

“Well, some of the things you say.”

“Not my responsibility, Dad.”

“What isn’t?”

“What I say.”

“How can what you say not be down to you?”

“Because it’s down to the idiot that’s writing this stuff.”

“Oh, him. Yeah, I’d forgotten about him.”

“Can’t blame you for that, Dad. I try, but it doesn’t help.”

“Okay. Shall I get on with the digging, then?”

“Good idea.”


I wrote this in response to Kreative Kue 152, issued on this site earlier this week. Feel free to join in; just follow the link.

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