There we were, me and the girls, sitting in a restaurant having lunch yesterday. The conversation was jovial, the atmosphere was kicking, our stomachs were satisfied and life felt good. K can be relied upon to make me shake my head in dismay, to roll my eyes with a amazement and to make me feel worried, in a fatherly way.
"Dad, I broke my record the other day."
"What record K?" I said. She'd pulled me into the situation and I had that 'damn I've just stepped in quicksand' feeling.
"You know, my record for the number of grapes I can fit in my mouth."
"Oh ok" said the Dad.
"I got 22 in my mouth the other day."
"You what?" said I.
"I got 22 grapes in my mouth, I beat my previous record of 20."
"Yeah, I believe you K, I do."
"No honestly Dad it's true, you can ask Felicity or Anna or Phoebe. And then I ate them all at once with spitting any out. Anna got 18 in her mouth and then couldn't eat them. I ate 22 honestly."
I believed every word.
That was the scary thing.
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