Five.


5 o’clock. Feeding time. I’m determined none will go to waste, so I shovel wriggly spaghetti down my throat with unprecedented haste.

I continue to gather pace with every successive noisy slurp, and dad tries in vain to conceal a smile with every consequential burp.
Without warning I lose interest, the plate has become my foe, dad tries to stop me launching it but his reactions are much too slow. 

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