One thing anyone who knows me learns very early is: don't mess with my food! Touch my whey protein, my blueberries, or that piece of leftover frittata I'm saving for lunch, and you risk grievous bodily harm. And don't even LOOK like you might go near my chocolate. THAT might involve disembowelment, or slow roasting over a hot fire. Whatever, be assured that it would end very, very badly for you.
OK, you get the picture. So imagine this conversation last night:
Me: Right, so tomorrow I'll take the boys to school. Then I can swing past the newsagent and grab the paper, and I'll have time to drop into that cafe and sit and read it over a coffee before meeting my client at 9:00.
Bike Boy: *yawn*
Me: Then, I'll head straight to the gym for my workout. Hmm. That means I'll have to take a snack with me, because I won't be home till lunchtime. That's OK, I have a protein bar in the pantry.
Bike Boy: Um....
Bike Boy: Er. There was a choc-mint bar in the pantry. I ate it this morning.
Bike Boy: Well, I thought you bought it for me!
Me: Since when do I buy you girly Slim Secrets bars?
Bike Boy: Well, it was with my steak bars, so I thought hey, great, you've bought me this nice choccie bar thing. I felt like something sweet.
Me: YOU ATE MY BAR??????
I got back from the gym at lunchtime today, and was greeted by my husband, holding a large bunch of flowers. And a replacement bar. What more could a girl want for Valentine's Day?
He's forgiven. This time.