And Who Will Do the Mopping Up

Vae victis! Her quick eyes spy out the field. Reconnoitred, the foe's dispositions have been noted, quantified, assessed. The forces of order and tidiness, in neat array, perfect their alignment, await onslaught. The sentinels stand guard: A pot of jam, a jar of marmalade are emplaced on the strategic salient of the dining-room table. In battle-dress, knives, forks and spoons, the infantry, have been fully mobilized. Now battle! The moment's silence is conflict's omen. Certain of the issue, she advances, knowing all order is as brief as day, while primal Chaos ruled when all was void. She crawls towards an unwary footstool, a defenceless lone straggler near the door. This, with one fell blow knocked out, her target would now appear to be the oak sideboard. With a sideways reel, the feint is over. Blitzkrieg is launched on the dining-room table, the heart of enemy operations. She tugs the table-cloth; a pepper-bomb descends, inducing heavy sneezing fits (didn't they outlaw biological warfare?) Thus repulsed, she makes for the paper-stand; papers, magazines, ordered by number, edition or day, take heavy poundings till they lie scattered, littered on the floor. The main assault no longer brooks delay! She tugs again - the infantry charge down. They miss the mark but make a hellish din. With head well positioned for cover, she tugs a third time, and with a mighty splut the jam-jars teeter, topple and tumble, and tumblers crash down with deafening jars. With jammy hands, the victress daubs the walls, and in triumph commemorates her feat. By the shindy wakened, Father stalks in, his face like that of Jupiter tonans before the fatal blow. Her sunny smiles pierce the dismal gloom - O double conquest! Did Gaul, cowering to the gore-drenched blade, love Caesar, the British tribes, defeated, bless Agricola? What smiles leave hard a little tear makes tender as a lamb, and Dad, a willing captive to her wiles, gives in - surrender unconditional. And Mum? She'll do the mopping up, of course!