It was when I turned ten that I got my pink pig cake. My Mum had worked a whole day to make it. Close to two feet long, iced from head to curled tail, it was all this ten year old boy could wish for. What can I say, I loved pigs. And cake. And not much else.
And this one was mine. Or so I thought…
Mum and Dad were gone for two hours that night. Which meant big sis was in charge. And sis liked cake too. More than she liked me.
“I want the cake, squirt” she’d barked.
I said no. I said I’d tell Mum. She laughed.
“Tell Mum, and Stu will be… stew.”
Puns weren't her strength, but she knew how to make a threat. Stu, my white mouse, was third, and last, on my list after pigs and cake. I backed down.
When Mum got home, I told her my friends had been, we’d all had cake, and now it was gone. That night I cried.
But I had the last laugh. I grew up lean and lithe, while sis lives to this day with that pink pig cake stuck fast on her hips.
