The Easter Egg
Frosty relations abound in the Rodgers den. I can hardly bring myself to write these words; my cupeth overfloweth with such fury.
He ate my Reserve Easter Egg.
Allow me to clarify how this came to be in the middle of June:
I am forced to buy myself a Lindt egg every year because nobody gives me the correct egg and, contrary to popular belief, I am too polite in person to make formal requests. It is stowed carefully underneath the paid bills to be filed and the Wi-Fi router until the first truly autumnal day of the year, when we have a venison stew with mashed potato, and only a giant slab of Lindt and two handfuls of those little truffle eggs afterwards will do.
And he had the nerve...!
“You ate it?”
“Last week while I was watching the football and you were upstairs watching Great Anatomy.”
“You ATE it?”
“Why is this a big deal? I’ll buy you another one.”
“You can’t ‘buy’ me another one. It’s an Easter egg and won’t be on sale again until next year.”
“Well, I’ll buy you a Twix.”
“I don’t want a fricking TWIX; I want my Lindt Easter egg.”
“Well I’ll buy you a box of Lindts then. God.”
And then he turned his back on me to load the dishwasher and I swear I could actually hear the eye roll so I stabbed him and buried his remains under the olive tree.