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xAllan Clews

xDiary of a househusband

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Seeds of my addiction

Children are extremely flexible, especially my three, because they sure know how to bend the truth.

As far as they're concerned they're completely English and they've forgotten all about Canada. But not me. I still think about the majestic forests, the immense distances, and the freezing winters that make all Canadians dream of fleeing to Florida.

I try to tell my children that they can't possibly have been completely assimilated. After all, they don't even like baked beans on toast. I know that when we first moved here one of the issues that really concerned me was food.

Things got off to a good start when I discovered corn chips and salsa sauce at Sainsburys. This was quickly followed by another sigh of relief when I located Ranch salad cream, bagels and even the occasional package of pretzels (which appear and disappear on the shelves according to some nebulous pattern that seems purposefully designed to alternately thwart me and then fill me with gratitude, as I am steadily moulded into a compliant consumer).

It didn't take me long, though, to realise that things had irrevocably changed when I couldn't find my favourite snack, my personal comfort food that has helped me through good times and bad. Because no matter where I look, no matter how diligently I search, I have not been able to find sunflower seeds (dry roasted and still in their shells). The most promising lead turned out to be a sick joke when I found myself bleakly staring down at some bird food.

Now this may seem like a rather lame thing to miss, but I have been addicted to sunflower seeds since I was ten years old. And whenever we have visitors from North America, I can't help but feel like I'm encouraging them to smuggle some illicit contraband, because I demand that they bring at least one large suitcase filled with sunflower seeds. Unfortunately, most of them misunderstand the urgent nature of this request and simply toss a few small bags into a side pocket: a miniscule teaser that simply inflames my cravings.

The kids quickly realised that something was going on. And I tried to get them to make fun of me because of it. To make them think I am sick, weak and in need of psychological help. Unfortunately, this tactic backfired when they realised I was trying to hide something. And so they now diligently demand their fair share on those rare occasions when a packet or two crosses the Atlantic and winds up in my grateful hands.

This has simply forced me to become highly creative and bend the truth for my own benefit by inventing a spurious rule. I have told them I will only share my sunflower seeds with them when we are outside.

When challenged on the fairness of this rule by Tara, my eldest, I deftly used my consummate verbal skills to convince her that she wasn't old enough to eat them in the house because she'd accidentally scatter the shells everywhere. Fortunately, she's still too young to see the inherent weakness in this argument. After all, I let her eat crisps and biscuits inside. And bits and pieces of these snacks always seem to make their way onto the floor, where they are inevitably ground into the carpet in a far more insidious way than a few harmless shells ever could be.

This has greatly reduced the amount I must share. Of course, I have learned to fiddle with the odds even more. Whenever we're out walking and I pop a handful of sunflower seeds into my mouth and then look down into their expectant eyes, I quickly say: "Would you like some sunflower seeds (pause)... or a bubbaloo instead?" as I reach into my pocket and produce these highly coveted treats. And as unbelievable as it sounds, they choose the bubbaloos every time.

If you have any comments you would like to make, contact features@ycp.co.uk

07/04/00

Converted for the new archive on 30 June 2000. Some images and formatting may have been lost in the conversion.