I hate nice biscuits

Sometimes I don’t want to be nice. Sometimes I feel like kicking a tree or yelling at my noisy neighbour. There are days when I’m in shopping centres waiting in a long queue to be served and I swear I am going to scream.

But I don’t. Because I am nice. Also, it wouldn’t make me feel any better, in fact, I know I’d feel worse. Plus I’d make someone else’s day take a downward turn. And that’s not cool. People have always told me that I’m nice. I’d like to keep it that way.

Which reminds me. A friend once declared that he hated nice biscuits. How can that be, you ask, when the very point of biscuits is that they are, well, nice. Did that mean that he only liked mean biscuits? No, he meant to say ‘Nice’ as in the French town which sounds like ‘niece’. Instead he said ‘Nice’ which rhymes with rice. I’m not sure if Arnotts are aware of the confusion which this biscuit creates.

I wonder if Nice biscuits ever get sick of the pronunciation confusion around their name? Maybe while they sit innocently on a plate, waiting to be eaten, they’re looking forward to dropping crumbs and making a mess just to aggravate someone for calling them Nice instead of Nice. ‘Merde’, the biscuits would yell, ‘I’m French, don’t insult me or I’ll cut you.’

Well, I guess it’s OK to be nice. It’s what keeps the wheels of our society oiled. And it means that you get to have friends and birthday presents and other nice stuff.

Just don’t mess with the biscuits, I’m telling you, they’ve got issues.

(P.S. I’m not implying that the French swear and want to cut people when they’re angry, it’s just the biscuits talking.)

The great icy pole disaster of Saturday afternoon

Two 8 year old boys were walking along happily enjoying their icy poles, on a warm sunny afternoon. ‘Life is pretty good’ said the look on one boy’s face. ‘I am totally living in the moment and I don’t even have to try’ said the look on the other boy’s face. Side by side, the brothers delighted in a treat that made a good day even sweeter.

And then it happened.

Half of the red icy pole had broken off and fallen with a dull splat onto the footpath. The boy didn’t notice at first, and kept walking. But when he did notice, his face fell, and the contentment turned to sorrow. He stopped. Paused. Half turned and kept looking backwards and forwards from the remainder of his icy pole in his hand to the now melting mess on the warm ground.

He stepped to go back, to do what? Retrieve it? But no, he knew it was a lost cause and so accepting his fate, he continued walking and didn’t look back again.

Loss is a harsh lesson to learn, especially when it’s unexpected, on a perfect and sunny summer’s afternoon when you’re an 8 year old boy eating an icy pole.

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