Because Pink Mashed Potato is Always Better Than White Mashed Potato.

Last night it was just Mum, Dad & I about to eat dinner together - something that rarely happens around here anymore. We were all set and ready to go, when Dad's work phone rang so he scuttled off to answer it (crazy man). Because Mum & I are polite, we sat down quietly at the table and waited for him to come back . . .

No, actually, I'm lying. We didn't. Since the average time of a work phone call is undetermined and unknown, we decided to just eat without him. He understands these things. And we were hungry. 'Nuff said.

Before I go on with this riveting (!) anecdote, let me rewind a little to Sunday, where I was excited to find no-sugar Creaming Soda on special at the shops. (As you can tell, I don't get out much. But it was only 80c for the bottle!) Since I'm trying to be good, the diet soft drink/soda really struck a chord with me, and I'd been waiting to open it up ever since we got home. Now fast forward to last night, where I decided to break it open for dinner.

The bottle had been sitting on the table. It hadn't been knocked over. It hadn't been shaken. It looked fairly innocent. But being skeptical of fizzy drinks, I still opened up the lid really slowly, just in case things got a little bubbly. Mum was sitting in front of me. Creaming Soda is red.

Do you see where this story is going yet?

Everything that happened next took place in slow motion. (Or at least, that's what I see in my head every time I replay the event and pee a little in my pants.)

As I slowly opened the bottle lid, there were no bubbles in sight. Of course, now that the danger was over, I could quickly twist the cap off and get on with the drinking of the red fizzy goodness. Er, wrong. For some reason, at the last turn of the cap, the bottle started spraying Creaming Soda EVERYWHERE.

My reaction? A strangled "Argh!". A frantic twisting of the cap back on. And the pointing of the bottle away from me. Towards Mum. And her mashed potatoes.

[Excuse me for a minute, seeing the slow motion version in my head is still making me break out into giggles a whole twelve hours later.]

The spraying assault eventually stopped, and the first thing Mum did was grab her piece of grilled chicken and gingerly shake the droplets off. And then glare at me as I laughed. Hysterically. Because her mashed potatoes? They were pink. And her chicken? It was dripping. (As was she.)

As for her pyjamas? Let's just be thankful they were pink to start with.