Midnight Snack (from the archive)

Mother always encouraged me to put a jam sandwich under my pillow, just in case I got peckish during the night. It’s a habit I continue to this day. But as I am a very deep sleeper and I don’t like jam, I now have fifteen loaves worth of mouldy sandwiches in my bed and I have to sleep sitting up.

Mrs Ashmash doesn’t mind. She says it looks like I’m on guard, alert to intruders. 

Last night I was awoken by the sound of someone stumbling around downstairs. I slipped out of bed, grateful for the fact I always sleep in a flak jacket, and reached for the nearest object that might be used as a weapon.

A hammer or shotgun would have been ideal, but I have neither, and so I tip-toed downstairs armed with a tightly rolled up copy of the Guardian Newspaper. I prayed the intruder would be nothing more menacing than an excessively noisy fly or an intellectual, fallen on hard times.

I traced the noise to the kitchen and in the half-light saw the outline of a figure rifling through the fridge. Summoning all my courage I flicked on the kitchen lights and the intruder was revealed - it was my mother! 

She’d submitted to her jam craving and stood before me with strawberry conserve smeared all over her face.  We stared at each other in silence.  She shamed and embarrassed, and I shocked and disappointed. After a while I turned off the lights and returned quietly to bed, leaving mother to satisfy her compulsion. 

I’m through with jam. Tonight I shall be switching to peanut butter.