on Scones, Scotland and Unicorn Poop

Last Sunday the Wife and I decided to take the girls (eight and four) for a short drive along the wine route, find a little farm stall, and treat the little terrorists to a light lunch and perhaps an ice cream. So the whole family was bundled into the car, the music set to mildly irritating and off we went.

The usual shenanigans ensued. We couldn’t agree on which direction to take, then we did the slow aimless drive of people not quite sure of where they’re going. The kids were in a bit of a ratty mood, and there were late exclamations of “Ooh turn off here!” when the only way I’d make the turn would be via wormhole, which in turn was followed by the moans of the lost opportunity as if I’d just denied them the gates of paradise. So eventually I made the inevitable U-turn and we landed up at a quaint little establishment housing a restaurant and farm grocer.

The waitron seated us and gradually the grumpy mood began to lift. We decided on scones and apple crumble pie. The waitress arrived to take our orders but was somewhat stymied halfway through when Youngest, in her most adult voice, asked (verbatim), “Please may I have a strawberry milkshake with unicorn poop on top and a Scotland.”

Well, the wife immediately shot some daggers from her eyes because I may or may not have convinced Youngest that the multicoloured sprinkles otherwise known as hundreds and thousands were, in fact, the faecal matter of a mythical animal. I had to keep a stoic face (not without Herculean effort) because I didn’t want my little one’s confidence shaken when attempting something as grown-up as ordering a meal, which is more than I can say for Eldest, who pretty much fell off her chair.

Meanwhile the waitress had frozen her face the same half-smiling expression that staff of her trade have perfected as a polite facade, only right now it remained so still that either she was waiting for one of us to clarify or she was simply asking herself “what the actual @%$&?”

The Wife, ever the first to salvage a situation, explained that she was asking for sprinkles in her milkshake and a scone. Nevertheless during the meal that ensued each scone was referred to as a Scotland – “mommy can I butter my own Scotland” – and at one stage Youngest advised us that her meal reminded her of Grandpa (her great grandfather) who, indeed, is Scottish.

So, be careful what you make your kids believe. As the Wife will inevitably read this I would like to confess that Eldest might still think I grew up in a cave and Youngest thinks that glitter is harvested from fairy farts.