f you had the choice, Dad,’ I say, ‘would you rather be eaten by ants or lions?’ It depends,’ he says. He’s holding the sauce bottle up to his eye and peering into the neck of it like it’s a telescope. ‘Blast!’ he says. ‘It’s blocked again!’ ‘Language!’ says Mum. ‘“Blast” is not a swear word,’ says Dad. ‘It’s not a nice word,’ says Mum. ‘Well?’ I say. ‘Ants or lions?’ Dad puts the bottle down. He rubs his chin with his hand and frowns. ‘I can’t say I’m too keen on being eaten by either,’ he says. ‘Can I have an injection to put me to sleep beforehand?’ ‘No. You have to be conscious.’ ‘Hmmm. In that case, I’ll take the lions. If I have to experience pain I’d rather it be short and sharp. Ants would take too long.’ ‘What if the lions were really old, though,’ I say. ‘And their teeth were all falling out and they just gummed you to death and it took ages and ages and ages?’ ‘Do we have to talk about this while we’re eating?’ says Jen.
