This is not a cool story for vegetarians. I myself was a vegetarian for a short time. However, even though I will never eat meat again (and here I include fish), an horrific action I took disqualifies me from the pure status of vegetarian. I've given myself a 10-year sentence for my crime. I'll be 25 by the time I can declare myself a bona fide vegetarian. Do I have regrets? Was it worth it? Would I do it again? Yes, yes, and yes again.
I read that after a traumatic event it's advisable to tell the story to sympathetic ears at least eight times. As this is not a story I can tell to my friends, not least because of my recently acquired stutter, I am hoping that the act of writing it down will do the same job.
This tale of great changes begins, typically you might think, on a Monday. Monday mornings had always been a wrench for Mum and me. All weekend we'd be outside doing countless, interesting projects on our two-acre block, then reach Monday morning and it'd be, 'Oh, no! Back to reality!' I loved being with Mum, doing projects, gardening. Until a year and a half ago, that is. Until then I thought Mum and I were both blissfully happy, busy little bees. But apparently, according to Trevor, I was wrong.
A year and a half ago, Trevor arrived on the scene, became Mum's live-in partner (notice I don't volunteer the term 'step-dad') and then the world I knew, and everything I thought was important to me, changed.
Although it was a project - Project Chooks - which led to the murderous act that would ultimately put a stop to the world Trevor had forced upon us, I believe it was only a vehicle. I would have found some other way to rock our so-called family's boat. I had to. It needed it.
The idea for Project Chooks came at the tail end of the first weekend Mum and I had spent together since Trevor moved in eighteen months ago. We'd had such a good time. We'd made this awesome sandpit for my half-sister, Caitlin, who's very cute, only sixteen months old and staggering around on her two pins.
Maybe you'll have gathered by now that Caitlin is the reason why Trevor moved in with us. Mum got pregnant when she had a one-night stand with Trevor after her end-of-year work party. One minute there's just us, next there's Trevor, and a few months later, Caitlin, too! Mum was unbelievably happy to be pregnant. I didn't fully grasp the fact that our radically altered living situation was permanent. When I did, I went into shock.
Back to the Monday. It was a tad more stressy than usual because, as well as Mum and me getting ready for work and school respectively, Caitlin was banging on the door and screaming, 'Out! Out!' to get to her sand pit.
'Caitlin, bubs,' comforted Mum as she rushed by to answer yet another phone call.
Trevor, not about to be torn from his paper a second before 'clocking on' (that's Trevor-Speak for when we leave and his time looking after Caitlin begins), groaned and huffed.
'This Monday morning mayhem! You should prepare for work on a Sunday.'
Trevor's perfected this pained voice. It's like it's a personal insult to him that Mum's rushing around getting ready to go out and earn the money to keep him in the style to which, since he moved in with us, he's become accustomed. You wouldn't believe the unit he inhabited before he moved in with us. Sad. Very sad.
Mum works in Equal Opportunities. When she got pregnant with Caitlin, she took a lower position so she wouldn't have to do so much overtime (still not as lowly as Trevor's when he worked there). But in a media crisis the department still treats her like the boss.
On the way back from the phone, Mum kisses Trevor's cheek.
'Another crisis averted by Sarah-Solve-Everything. We'll be heading for the car any second now, darl'. Ready, Reb?'
I wasn't but I could take a hint.
'Sarah!' said Trevor flapping his newspaper. 'That metallic, coffee-breath smell! Either clean your teeth or keep your distance.'
I'd been wondering how long it would be before Mum's supposed Equal Opportunities principles would kick in. She lectures me on equality between sexes, races, abilities. But on the personal front, she really lets herself down.
Trevor's at his worst when Mum's about to leave for work, which makes me wonder how he really feels about being a stay-at-home dad. He's into this 'man with a pram', politically correct position. He raves on about it to anyone and everyone who'll listen.
'My life has become very particular, very domestic,' he goes. 'I've designed a small, precious life for my daughter and me. My life has reduced, like a good sauce.'
I've been tempted, at more than one of the twenty occasions I've heard him spill this bilge before, to point out that, seeing as he didn't have a life before, it's no great sacrifice.
But my stutter, which started just before Mum gave birth to Caitlin, means I no longer say what I'm thinking. It's been an interesting transition. A year or so ago I was a person not afraid to voice her opinions. But that's all changed. At first, I was lost. Now I've made use of my affliction. I've become introspective, a keen observer and have taken up shooting video.
What I like most is editing. I've got a cool computer programme that lets me manipulate and juxtapose the images. Editing is like the debates I used to love having with Mum. Arranging the images and words is like organising my thoughts for a good argument.
Mum disapproves of my new computer lifestyle: 'It's not healthy.' I showed her what I was doing and she was impressed plus it kept her off my back for a while.
When Trevor first moved in he said, 'I think it only fair that you accommodate my domestic arrangements. I have to drink an entire pot of tea before I interact with another human being.'
'That's all very well when you're living the bachelor life,' laughed Mum.
Caitlin, like most kids, rises early and demands attention as soon as she wakes. Trevor protested about his peace being disturbed every morning for a year. After Caitlin's first birthday, Mum must have had enough. She said, 'Trevor. If you want time alone, stay up late.'
But, like the true dinosaur he is, Trevor was unable to adapt. When he does stay up late he goes on next morning about what a sacrifice family life is. To make up for all the compromises he's made, he stays in bed until well after midday on weekends.
Back at 'mayhem Monday', Trevor is spluttering out of the window at the rain
'You should have put a roof over the sandpit!'
'It's got a t-t-t-tarp,' I said.
'Now you want to start another p-p-p-project!' sneered Trevor, imitating my stutter for the millionth time.
He'd been waiting to get a dig in about Project Chooks ever since we'd been raving about it last night. I'd had such a good weekend working outside with Mum. I was over the moon when she suggested doing something else with me. But she hadn't asked Trevor what he thought and he was furious.
Mum grabbed Caitlin for a goodbye smooch and we all trouped out to the car. Our departure was accompanied by Trevor bleating on.
'Chooks! Impractical, labour intensive, expensive! We need thorough research, a budget …'
'Research?' Mum interrupted. 'Right,' Mum turned over the engine. Trevor winced as usual.
'Sarah! Listen to the engine!'
'Reb, let's go to the library on our way home tonight.'
'Tonight?'
'Bye-bye, my poppet. Kiss for Mummy.'
'Library? But … what about diiner?' said Trevor, desperately.
'You have a turn at cooking.' Mum closed her car door.
Trevor, horrified, knocked on my window at her.
'But what will I make?' he asked.
'Check the fridge. Be inventive. If not, go shopping.'
'But you've got the car.'
'Walk to the deli.'
'But …' Trevor's panic was beginning to upset Caitlin. Personally I hadn't had this much fun for ages. ' … I'm looking after Caitlin.'
Trevor was so caught up he neglected to give the full daily lecture which goes something like … 'Warm the car, Sarah. Ninety-eight per cent of engine damage occurs within the first five minutes of it starting.'
As Mum drew away I had to stuff my hand in my mouth to stop my giggles. That is, until I realised she was laughing, too.
At the end of our street, just before we rounded the corner, I turned and took a last look at Trevor holding onto Caitlin at the end of our drive. It was then I got a goose-bumpy feeling. Project Chooks was momentous. It would change everything. Finally, we had reached a fork. I had this profound feeling that Mum wasn't going to have to keep taking everything Trevor slung anymore. I was right.
Mum was seven months' pregnant when Trevor moved in. A week after that I had cause to come home from school unexpectedly. I won't go into detail, but suffice to say it's not that bad every month. Thank goodness.
I arrived home to find a little red sports car was parked in our driveway.
I was in the bathroom getting a bottle of painkillers from the medicine cabinet when I heard Trevor's voice. 'Oh! Oh! Yes! Yes! YES!'
Then I heard a female's voice that wasn't Mum's yelling, 'Oh God! Oh God! Oh GOD!'
I froze. Seconds later, Trevor, naked, flung open the bathroom door and headed for the toilet.
'What the...? Rebecca? Hi.'
I was like a kangaroo trapped in headlights.
'Trev? I have to go! Trev!' sang out the woman.
I ran to my bedroom, slammed the door.
I peeped out and saw an older woman of about thirty pulling on red shoes.
Then Trevor was at my door. I tried to close it but he had his foot wedged.
'You breathe a word,' he hissed, 'and I'll make your life a living, breathing, hell. Got it?'
The woman came up behind him.
'Trevvie, kissy. See ya soon, big boy?'
'You betcha.'
I watched through a crack in the door as they pashed and groped.
I kept the knowledge to myself for a week, but one night I couldn't bear Trevor going on at Mum.
'Jesus, Sarah. Who are you eating for? A couple of elephants?'
Mum put her fork down and her eyes filled with tears.
'It's salad!' I said. Then I couldn't help myself. 'Mum ... Mum ... I-I-I came home from school last Wednesday ...'
Trevor kicked me hard under the table, but I didn't care.
'Wednesday?' Trevor said. 'I was out Wednesday.'
'I found Trevor and ... what's her name?'
'Who?' asked Trevor as if I was mad.
'They were in your bedroom, Mum.'
'For chrissakes, Rebecca! Sarah?'
'It's true, Mum.'
'Who was where?' asked Mum.
'You're surely not going to believe...' Trevor looked rattled.
'She drives a red car, wears red shoes.' I continued.
'In your fantasies!' Trevor exploded.
'And they were on your bed.'
'I'm out of here.' Trevor got up. 'You wanna bring up another kid on your own, Sarah? Be depressed for years? You believe this lying little...'
'Depressed?' I looked at Mum.
'You want this child to have a Daddy?' Trevor continued.
'This situation is really hard for you, Reb, but...' said Mum.
I couldn't believe it! Mum thought I was making it up.
'I've never ever lied to you, Mum.'
I started for Trevor. 'You arsehole.'
'Arsehole! Sarah? I don't have to stay.'
'Rebecca, take back the... "arsehole".'
'I wish I could. To the hovel he came from.'
'You know what I mean! Apologise!'
'Never.'
'Go to your room, Rebecca. Now!'
That night I woke up to find Trevor's hand over my mouth.
'I warned you.'
I tried to bite him. He put his other hand under the covers.
'You keep your mouth shut. Say, "Yes, Trevor", Rebecca. Say it!'
He was hurting me so much I had no choice.
Next morning I was fitting a huge bolt to my bedroom door when the phone rang. Trevor answered it and brought it to me. It was my friend Jazmyn and she was ropable. Apparently Trevor had just answered the phone by saying, 'Jazmyn? You're the one Rebecca refers to as "fatty".'
Mum wanted to know what I was doing with the lock?
'A young woman needs her privacy.' said Trevor, quick as. 'As do we. Come here, sexy.' Eyeing me, he gave Mum a huge pash.
About a month later, and a week before Mum gave birth, she was ready to leave for her final check up. Trevor was still in his pyjamas.
'What do you mean you're not coming?' Mum was saying.
'Exactly that. You overbearing bovine.' Trevor poured himself another cup of tea.
'Don't call me that!' Mum said.
'You remind me of my mother!'
'I'll come with you, Mum.'
We had to sit in the driveway for ages, Mum was crying so much.
Just as I suspected, the little red car was there when I came home at lunchtime. The sound effects were the same, too.
That night I told Mum. Trevor did the same act - total disbelief - as before, only more so.
'She's jealous, Sarah. I'm about to be a father. I've got my woman! What more could I want?'
He put his arm around Mum. She couldn't see, but he grinned at me like the full liar he is.
Then he got serious.
'Make a choice, Sarah.' he said. 'It's me and the baby. Or... Rebecca.'
'How about you go and stay with Auntie Charlene, Reb?'
'N-n-n-o!' I couldn't believe she would send me away!
'Until I've had the baby?'
'Before she goes, I want an apology.' said Trevor, loving every moment of it.
'M-M-Mu ...'
'Now she's pretending to stutter.'
'I'm n-n-n-n...' I couldn't stop the stuttering, nor the crying. Mum looked confused. Torn.
'Sarah. My sweet Sarah.' Trevor got on his knees, slid his hand up Mum's skirt. You could see Mum wanting to believe him.
Doesn't take too much guessing as to the night my stutter began.
After Caitlin was born, life was radically different at our house. That I loved Caitlin more than I hated Trevor saved me. Mum stayed at home for the first three months after Caitlin was born so Trevor wouldn't have seen anything of Maria and the little red car. But it started up again as soon as Mum went back to work. I kept quiet out of fear, I'm ashamed to say.
Back to the week where this whole family affair starts to heat up, the week Project Chooks; that Monday afternoon after school, Mum and I had serious fun at the library. We weren't there long; Mum was desperate to see Caitlin. We got fish'n'chips on the way home. She made me stay in the car just in case Trevor had set a new record and had a meal on the table.
That night me, Mum and an ecstatic Caitlin poured over the chicken books we'd got from the library. I'd no idea how beautiful and varied chickens were.
'A G-g-g-golden Seabright.'
'Sir John Seabright bred intensively for 30 years,' Mum read. 'Imagine that. Your life's work.'
'W-w-w-wings like lace.'
'Come and look, Trevor,' Mum called. 'Stop sulking.'
'Domestic animals, Sarah, are a financial burden.'
'Trevor! How did we manage without you?'
Very well, I thought.
By Wednesday night that week we had the chicken breed we wanted, the hen house designed, and Mum was working on her chicken connections. We had the new gay liaison officer at Mum's work lined up to come and help build on the weekend. Me, Mum and Caitlin were very excited, but Trevor was still vehemently opposed. He'd refused to join in discussions or be part of the preparations.
After dinner, Trevor went to bed before Caitlin had her bath. Later I heard Mum knocking at the spare room door for a goodnight kiss, but he refused to let her in.
I passed Mum on the way to the bathroom. It was obvious she'd been crying.
'Are you okay, Mum?' I asked.
'Fine. Night-night, darling.'
'I love you, Mum,' I told her. I know she loves me, despite what Trevor says.
We were late home on the Thursday night of the week of Project Chooks. Mum had had a rough day. If Trevor had taken the time, he would have noticed her shoulders were up by her ears.
But he was ready with one of his lists and started reading it before she even put down her briefcase. He'd done this before in the face of a project, and Mum had always listened to him.
'One,' he read. 'You want three birds, that's $75. It's at least $300 for a basic chook shed set-up. Five dollars per month per bird for wheat, that's $180 per annum. That's $555. We spend $5 per week on eggs, that's $260 per annum.'
'Stop right there,' said Mum.
'This took me all day, Sarah,' he protested. 'At least have the decency to listen.'
'I don't give a shit about your list, Trevor. We're building a hen house this weekend.'
'You don't have the skills,' Trevor scoffed.
'Rebecca's not staring at a computer screen! We're having chooks. End of story.'
Mum called Gordon, the chicken contact, as soon as she took off her coat and set up a time to go a pick up three Rhode Island Reds. The breed is reputed to be one of the best layers and are fairly docile.
Trevor didn't speak for the rest of that night.
Before Trevor, I used to love Friday nights. Mum and I would get a takeaway and discuss our plans for the weekend. When I got home from school that week it was just like old times. Mum and I pored over our list and agreed to get an early night in anticipation of the work ahead.
Building the chook shed goes down as my most divine learning curve. Alan from Mum's work was unbelievably good-looking, plus he had great tools. Mum hung out with Caitlin nearby, encouraging us.
Trevor emerged midway through Saturday afternoon. You could see he was amazed by how much we'd done.
But all he said was to Mum about Alan, 'He's not gay. They can't build things like that.'
'He's far too good-looking to be straight,' Mum fired back.
Next day, just before noon, we put the finishing touches to 'The Chook Palace', as Mum called it. We put shell grit in bowls, newspaper and straw in the nesting boxes, sawdust on the floor, and water and wheat in special new containers.
That evening we settled our three, fluffy red hens. They're so busy. Much more fun than I'd thought they'd be. Caitlin learned the hard way how to give a chicken a cuddle and when she refused to leave at dinner time we ate in the chook pen!
Trevor prowled outside, scowling.
'They're just chickens.'
'Why not let us enjoy our simple pleasures, Trevor?' I'd never heard Mum be cold to him before.
Trevor stalked into the house. Then paced up and down looking out of the bedroom window with his arms crossed.
The next Wednesday I came home from school early because of my intermittent monthly problem. All I wanted was to take a tablet and lie down in the dark. But the little red engine was there in the driveway and the grunting was in full swing.
'Yes, yes, YES!' That was Trevor.
'Oh God! Oh God! OH GOD!'
The female's voice, I assumed it was still Maria, reached an ear-splitting volume. Caitlin started to cry. I struggled out of bed and barrelled into Trevor outside Caitlin's room just as Caitlin stopped crying.
Trevor pushed me up against the wall. Luckily Maria appeared, pulling on her skirt. 'I came to see the little red rooster, not listen to some kid screaming.'
I dashed into my room, bolted the door and leant against it, panting. A few seconds later there was a tap.
'R-r-r-rebecca. You say anything and you're t-t-t-t-toast.'
I don't know how, but I went out like a light. I awoke to aromatic cooking smells and laughter. It was a few seconds before I registered the afternoon's events.
In the family room, Mum was bouncing Caitlin on her knee. She looked radiant. Trevor was wearing an apron, cooking and sipping red wine.
'What's the occasion, Trev?' Mum asked.
Infidelity, I thought.
'Reb, Trevor says you had to come home from school early?'
'Is that all he said?' I asked.
'No. He apologised.'
'What for?' I looked at Trevor.
'For being a total pain about our chooks.'
Eyeing me, Trevor slipped down close to Mum and stroked her stockinged knee.
'Now. What about this surprise?' giggled Mum.
'Follow me.'
Trevor was at our chook shed, arms wide as if he owned it. 'There,' said Trevor. Strutting, cock-sure, shiny, was the hugest rooster. Then, right in front of us, he pinned down a hen despite her frantic resistance, did his job, plumped his plumage, strutted and crowed.
Outside the pen, Trevor echoed his movements.
'Go, Rodney!' he screamed. Caitlin started to cry.
I marched into the hen house and picked up the victim. What happened next was a flurry of feathers, squawking, screaming as Rodney flew at me, talons first. I was scratched deeply on my arm. I'd dropped the hen and put my hands up to protect my face. Otherwise I'm sure he would have got me in the eye.
'Reb' Mum rushed to my side. 'Are you hurt?'
I felt warm, wet blood on my sleeve, but held my arm close to my body. I didn't want her to see.
'I'm f-f-fine,' I said.
I walked back to the house.
'Trev's making lamb korma,' called Mum. 'He even rang me at work to find out what your favourite dinner is.'
I stared as hatefully as I could at Trevor. He narrowed his eyes, warning me.
'I'm a v-v-v-v-vegetarian.'
'As of when?' asked Mum.
'I c-c-c-couldn't kill a ch-ch-chicken' I said. 'It's h-h-h-hypocritical to eat m-m-meat if you can't.'
'Fair enough,' agreed Trevor.
'But,' said Mum. 'Start tomorrow, Reb. Come on.'
'Mum,' I so wanted to tell her everything. 'I'm going back to bed.'
'Sweetie! You're still feeling poorly?' said Mum. 'I'll bring you a hottie.'
'I'll take it' said Trevor. 'You relax.' He patted Mum's bottom then did another mock cockerel strut.
Of course, I locked my door and didn't answer. 'R-r-r-rebecca,' he whispered, 'Z-z-zip your l-l-lip. Or else.'
That night there was a session of 'Yes! YES, JESUS!' from next door. Nothing to match the decibels of that afternoon. But when I heard Mum sobbing, it was clear they'd made up. I'd asked her about the sobbing. It was ecstasy, apparently. She even said she hoped I'd feel like that one day!
After it had gone quiet, I still couldn't sleep. The gash on my arm throbbed like crazy. At about 2 a.m. I decided to get a pain killer. Half-way down the stairs I was stopped by Trevor's voice. He was pacing, speaking into the phone.
'Maria, she means nothing. Nothing. I'll see you tomorrow.'
I fled back to my room. I had to put a stop to this situation. Eventually I came up with my plan. If all went well, the lies and deceit would be over by the end of the weekend.
Early next morning, Mum was in full corporate gear, feeding Caitlin, with Trevor drinking tea and reading the paper.
'Are you still going to Auntie Ch-Ch-Ch,' I start.
'Charlene's!' says Trevor, exasperated.
'On S-s-s-aturday?'
'Yes,' says Mum.
'Do you mind if I don't c-c-come? I have this idea to make you two a m-m-multimedia feast of the senses. I w-w-wanna do something for you and Trev. Show I accept Trev's part of our l-l-lives.'
'Rebecca! That is so sweet!' Mum was amazed.
Trevor was less convinced.
'S-s-seriously, T-T-Trev. I wanna show you I care.'
It seems unbelievable, but he bought it! He actually crowed. 'Cock-a-doodle-doooooo!'
Mum laughed, overjoyed at what she thought was us getting on at last.
I almost came unstuck that night. He was lying in wait for me on the landing and pushed me into my bedroom. My heart thumped right up in my throat.
'Leave your room unlocked tonight, okay? You can show me how much you care.'
He was starting to do gross things with my neck, pushing me towards the bed. I had to think really quickly.
'I've got my m-m-monthly! Sorry, Trev. Rain check?'
He strutted then, like Rodney, mouthing a silent cock-a-doodle-doo. I made out I was laughing.
After he left, it took me ages to stop shaking.
Next day I dashed home from school, set everything up and hid, heart thumping, waiting for the little red car to arrive.
It all went to plan. There was the usual chorus of 'Yes! Oh God!' and the headboard thumping.
That night Mum knocked on my door to tell me not to stay up all night but to get everything ready, I'd need that time and more.
The next morning Mum, Trevor and Caitlin were in the car, ready to go.
'P-p-promise you'll be gone for the whole day?' I asked.
Reassured, I set to. Later, I had only just finished setting up the TV screen in front of the table where we'd be eating, when they arrived home.
Mum, carrying the sleeping Caitlin, admired the white cloth, flowers, candles.
'Darling! This is beautiful,' said Mum.
'C-c-c-cool,' agreed Trevor.
They got changed and I served the first course; chicken noodle soup.
'So much for v-v-vegetarianism,' slurped Trevor.
'Trev!'
'He can t-t-t-tease.' I smiled.
'Me and R-R-Reb. have got an understanding, haven't we?' he said, winking.
For the next course I brought out a massive silver, oval dish. A humongous roast bird with all the trimmings, steamed. I pressed 'play' on the video as Mum and Trevor admired the meal.
'Look! Our chookies!' says Mum about the video.
The video is of the chook pen, the three hens and Rodney. I'm there, waving at the camera.
'And Rodney! Cock-a-doodle-do!' crows Trevor.
'How did you do that?' asks Mum.
'The c-c-c-camera's on a tripod.' I shrugged. 'I just pressed the record button.'
Trevor ripped into a leg, juices dripping down his beard and chin.
'Excellent. So fresh!'
On the video, Rodney pinned down a hen.
'That's my Rod! Doing his bit for blokes.'
'I fiddled the speed up, sort of Marx Brothers ma-ma-manic screwball music,' I told them.
'What's that?' Mum asked, peering.
A grainy, fleshy picture gradually sharpened into focus.
But the mysterious image was short-lived. We were back with Rodney, flapping on top of a hen.
In the candle light, confusion flickered over Mum's face. Trevor was too intent on his second massive leg to register much.
On the video, I'm waving to the camera and running into the chook pen.
I checked they were watching the video and ducked under the table. I made out I'd dropped something, while actually I was chaining Trevor's legs to the table.
I popped up in time to see more Rodney and his mating antics on the video screen, then another, more obvious this time, fleshy picture. A clear, split-second of buttocks bouncing.
'Rebecca?' queries Mum. 'What…?'
But before I can answer, we've cut back to me chasing Rodney the rooster using kick-boxing and karate moves.
Trevor and Mum are quiet now as they watch me catch Rodney, hang him by his feet upside down and pull his neck until it breaks. The sound of crunching bones, a.k.a. 'Kung Fu' movies, accompanies. It's brilliantly ghoulish.
'It's way harder than the manual said,' I say.
Mum lowers her forkful of chicken, Trevor his leg.
The human grunting from the video is loud. We're in Mum's bedroom and a male bottom is going up and down like the clappers. A woman's legs, the feet encased in red, high-heeled shoes, are gripped hard around the man's back.
'I've doubled the length here... It was over so quickly...' I say.
From three angles (I had cameras hidden on each bedside table and one behind on the dressing table) the video cuts between close ups of Trevor's and Maria's faces, plus, (of course), the bottom.
'Drawing it out adds impact.'
'Rebecca!' Mum is stricken.
'Turn the fuck'n thing off! Off!' Trevor screamed. He got up, but then fell, tripped by his chains. 'You bitch!'
On screen I'm slowly lowering Rodney into a vat of bubbling water.
'That softens the f-f-feathers for easier plucking. Again, way more d-d-difficult in reality.' I comment.
The music, from the movie Misery, runs over the top here. The final image is me, smiling into the camera, as if butter wouldn't melt in my mouth.
As I said, not a cool story for vegetarians.