“But it stinks like granny Hairy Chin! I hate cabbage,” cried Charlie.
“Why can’t I just eat cake and beef flavoured crisps, you Old Witch! When you’re old like granny Hairy Chin, I’ll make you eat cabbage for breakfast, lunch and dinner. And for snacks. Even at the cinema.”
Mum just ignored Charlie. She knew that the previous threat of taking away his television if he didn’t finish his dinner, would be enough to make him follow her instructions. The last time he refused to eat all of his dinner, mum took away his TV for two weeks. Charlie vowed to never, ever, leave his dinner again. He loved his TV; it was part of the reason he was so fat. Charlie could sit and watch TV for hours. His favourite programme was ‘Cake Wars’; a children’s baking show, where little, round, ankle bitters, would compete to bake the most wonderful, fluffy treats.
Charlie would sit and salivate at some of the creations on Cake Wars. The presenter, Mr Cake (not his real name, and not a very imaginative ‘stage name’ either), wore a white shirt with pictures of cupcakes on – the same every show. It was basically his uniform. Charlie had the matching pyjama bottoms. He’d had the same pair for a few years now and would make his legs resemble packed out sausages. Sausages with little frayed holes in. Charlie had dreamt of being on the show and winning in it. The winner of the show is given the first prize of having their creation made and sold in the finest cake shops in the land. He knew one thing - his cake wouldn’t have any cabbage in it.
‘Cabbage. What’s the point of it? It tastes like farts; it smells like farts, it’s a sewage-like green colour. An overgrown Brussel-fart, sorry, sprout’, thought Charlie.
He took a deep breath and quickly shovelled the cabbage into his gob and without giving it a chance to touch his taste buds, washed it down his throat with some water. Try as he might, he just couldn’t avoid that fart taste. The resentment he felt towards the Old Witch was stronger than the Easter Bunny during Christmas (and rumour has it, he hates Santa stealing his thunder).
That was it, dinner was finished. Time to go and squint at Mr Cake, to establish whether he was actually a human.
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