The Day I Dropped Dinner (and My Hero)

My aunt loved me. I know this because she said so, often. Plus, she always gave me gifts – usually practical ones like socks or pajamas – but still, gifts.

I think she really did adore me. She just found my pre-teen antics…challenging. Not that she ever shouted or complained. No, she had more subtle ways of expressing her frustration – like the dramatic crease of her brow, a perfectly timed click of her tongue, or the heavy, silent sigh that made me feel like I'd aged her ten years in ten minutes.

But one winter evening, things came to a head.

It was absolutely freezing outside, the kind of cold that made you question why humans ever left the equator. But inside, we were snug and warm. Better still, it was dinnertime – a sacred moment in our family. Dinner wasn't just a meal; it was a celebration, an event. On bitterly cold days, it promised to be a comforting feast of steaming, aromatic goodness.

I, of course, was helping absolutely no one in the kitchen. Why? Well, I was fully absorbed in my favourite TV show, Robin's Nest. It wasn't just entertainment; it was an event. One of the characters – Albert, the one-armed hero of the show in my opinion, was living his best life, and I found him endlessly hilarious and inspiring. So much so that I often spent my days mimicking him – one arm tucked behind my back as I stumbled around, pretending to be Albert.

Now, before you judge me for skipping out on dinner prep, let me explain: this was the pre-Sky TV era. There was no pause button, no streaming. Miss an episode, and that was it. Gone forever.

Plus, after dinner, the grown-ups monopolised the TV for news, weather, and other yawn-inducing programmes. So you see, missing Robin's Nest wasn't an option.

As I lay sprawled on the living room floor, the delicious smells wafting in from the kitchen teased my senses. I was practically drooling, stomach growling in anticipation. And then, the moment arrived: dinner was ready.

My aunt handed me my plate, steaming with everything I'd been dreaming about all evening. But here's where it all went terribly wrong.

Still in my Albert mindset, I decided to receive the plate with just one hand. Because, you know, Albert could do it, and so could I. Spoiler alert: I could not.

In one horrifying moment, my lovely dinner – my steaming, comforting, mouthwatering dinner – toppled off the plate and onto the carpet.

Time froze.

I stared at the mess, my young heart breaking into a thousand tiny pieces. The grown-ups stared at me, their expressions ranging from shock to thinly veiled exasperation. And then my aunt, my sweet, gift-giving, ever-patient aunt, did something I'll never forget. She got angry.

"Oh, for goodness' sake!" she snapped, her brows knitting together in a way that could have scared the frost off the windows.

I cried, of course. How could I not? My dinner dreams were dashed, and I'd managed to ruin a perfectly good carpet. Surely, I thought, they would feel sorry for me. Surely they'd share their dinner with their poor, devastated child.

They did not.

Instead, I was handed a hamburger. A dry, uninspiring hamburger that might as well have been made of sadness and regret. The grown-ups ate their delicious dinner while I sat there, nibbling my consolation meal and wallowing in self-pity.

That day, I fell out of love with Albert. The one-armed hero had failed me – or rather, I'd failed myself in my blind devotion to him. I tucked both arms firmly by my sides and vowed never to mimic him again.

And as for my aunt? Well, that was the only time I ever saw her truly angry. Once was enough.