I don’t get soup spoons. There’s just no reason for them to exist. Soup spoons, to the few uninitiated of you out there, are the Channel 5 of the spoon world. Cumbersome, annoying to use and far too big (not to mention they can cut the side of your mouth with ease, unless you’re blessed with a mouth like the Blackwall tunnel), Soup spoons infected my dreams as a youngster. Ever since the first encounter with them they gave me nightmares–

In the most common recurring nightmare a Soup spoon—or, as He came to be known to me, Mr Soup Spoon—used to chase me around the house while trying to flash light off his body and direct it in to my eyes. It wasn’t the being chased by him that I minded particularly (I was pretty sure I could fend off a spoon, seeing as I had hands and feet to attack with and all it had was a freakish grin and an attacking nature: plus, it was a dream…), it was more the way he’d try and crawl in to my mouth at any given opportunity, which was something I was prepared to go to great lengths to avoid. For that reason I was forced to scream my head-off with a closed mouth, which, if you’ve ever tried it, you will know is not only very difficult to do at any volume, but extremely weird as feelings go. (As well as the fact that it does actually feel like your head is about to be blown off, which, dream or not, is entirely unpleasant.)

The nightmares eventually subsided when I was twelve, but by then Mr Soup Spoon had exerted a five year reign of terror upon me which saw He and I scaling mountains, floating in outer-space, and generally playing cat and mouse—or spoon and child—as I tirelessly fought to stay away from him.

So do your children a favour: stay clear of the soup spoons…

Right before I log off, I need to relish in a new purchase. I have just bought the greatest newton running shoes that I have ever owned. LA Marathon, here I come!

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