Shake Well

I’m partial to the odd milk shake, Frijj, being my favourite. Last Sunday when in Morrison’s my Mum, knowing how much her boy likes this brand of shake, very kindly took advantage of the twofur offer that was on at the time.

The same day, last Sunday, Michelle and I went round for dinner and, sure enough, when asked if we wanted a drink my mum offered her kind purchase, some sickly sweet smelling strawberry Frijj, which I eagerly accepted. Off she went to get the drinks while Michelle and I spoke with my dad. Half way through the idol banter of weddings and work and all the rest I was handed the familiar pink and white bottle and, as the label instructs, shook well. Unfortunately my mum, being naturally helpful, had loosened the lid for me, a fact I did not of course realise until my initial shock subsided and I realised that my parents couch, table floor and rug, myself my fiancée and indeed my father were covered by the sticky gelatinous bright pink liquid once contained in the bottle.

There was a mad dive for the kitchen roll and the furniture was salvaged, save for the odd sticky spot, Michelle was mostly okay, my dad had to change his trousers, but as I was at ground zero of the pink eruption I had to be driven home, throw my cloths under the shower and completely wash and dress myself. Even after washing myself off completely I still smelt like walking candyfloss.

Some of you may be wondering if this little accident was followed by my usual brand of seething rage and wall punching. Much the Michelle’s relief, who was watching me nervously while I surveyed the areas hit, I simply let out a short laugh of disbelief, brought on when my eyes finally reached my fathers shell shocked face, which I assume matched my own.