Something for the hungry months

Even though Grit can be a smug git, she is sometimes buffeted by bouts of depression and goes so far as to think everything is probably useless, everything I do is a failure, and life is totally pointless! What a blast those days are. I blame childbirth for messing with my brain. And of course it could all be Dig's fault. Anyway, it is not a great day to discover, in the corner of Tiger's bedroom, this sight:


Yes, that's right. Big Ted is hanging from a noose.

I say to Tiger, trying to sound normal, facing confirmation that I have genetically passed her a depressive dominant gene which will return to haunt me when she is aged 14, I say, 'Tiger, what is Big Ted doing?' 'Smoking' she replies. Such is the innocence of my children. She does not mean he is puffing away on the dreaded weed. It means he has been hunted down by neolithic warriors or possibly a fierce Celtic tribe and strung up at the top of the roundhouse to hang over the fire. Here he can shrivel up and become flavoursome, and we can feast on him when times are hard, possibly next February. And if you are wondering about the fire, you might just be able to make out an upturned tambourine positioned under Big Ted's bottom.