The earliest incident I can recall was when I was about seven years old. My parents owned a newsagency at the time, and sometimes I liked the job of refilling the confectionary (of course I did). The boxes of lollies and chocolates were kept underneath the counter. On the night of the incident it must have been late and near closing time, because I remember my Dad was running the vacuum over the floor at the back of the shop, and was the only other person around. Thus, presented to me was an opportunity for The Perfect Crime.
I, the perpetrator, was in perfect proximity to the treasure, with the only potential witness being kept at bay by the tell-tale whirring of the vacuum cleaner.
It was the fastest I’ve ever gobbled a Caramello Koala.
Seeing as though I’m still telling this tale 20 years after the incident, I am not sure if the sense of remorse fitted the crime.
However, that brings me to my most recent tale of food theft, for which I feel
Feeling sick (of my desk) I strolled upstairs to carry out the urgent task of washing my teacup, when, low and behold, I swung open the communal fridge door only to be greeted with a sumptuous looking platter of snowy-capped rum balls. I am usually loyal to the idea of consuming my beloved rum balls only at Christmastime, but presented with such a breathtaking display, what was a girl to do?
I am expecting a call from the scriptwriters of CSI any minute.