“I saw a lizard in the garden,” I told my parents as we ate. “It was yellow and black with five toes on each foot.”
“It isn’t nice to talk about animals at the table,” said my mother. But under my breath I whispered “lizards,” and saw a five-toed foot in the shadow underneath my plate.
“But I saw a beetle, too, with horns on,” I said. “I think the lizard was trying to catch the beetle.”
“We’ve told you before, no talking about animals when we eat,” said my father, pouring his wine. “Your mother doesn’t like it, and nor do I.” But quietly I spoke the word “beetles” to myself, and black shapes scuttled beyond the salad bowl.
“Have you revised for your life exams?” asked my mother. “After dinner we’re going to test you on all the things you don’t understand.”
“Worms,” I said, and saw worm-shapes uncoiling underneath the white tablecloth. And then I said “tortoise,” and the pineapple in the fruit bowl turned into an armoured shell.
“Stop that,” said my father, growing angry. “I’m not going to tell you again.” But I told him “lemurs,” and a long black and white striped tail whipped out from under the table and splashed in his lentil soup. I said “piranha,” and a fish with needle teeth leapt from the soup bowl and bit down hard on the tail, causing howls of pain. And then I said “great ape,” and the entire table rocked to one side as if there was something powerful beneath it.
“Right, young man, that’s enough,” cried my mother, staring in horror at the lizards that were creeping towards her over the tablecloth, “go to your room, at once, and start learning something.” But I just said “moths” and the air was full of them, colliding with wine glasses and dropping into the mashed potato.
And then, without me even saying it, the kitchen door flew open and a tapir burst into the room, took fright at the washing machine and went into a panicked rampage which destroyed three chairs and a shelving unit. The ape, alarmed by the noise, sent the table flying and attempted its escape through the window, while the lizards gleefully devoured the worms and the moths went to war with the beetles.
“You’ve done it again, you’ve ruined dinner!” shrieked my father, but was soon overwhelmed by the countless vultures descending from the ceiling to get at what was left of the meal. And then the badgers started ransacking the cupboards, making off with tins of beans and minestrone soup, and the lemurs gibbered and whooped with excitement as they tried to pull the tortoise by the head from its shell. Wild boars overturned the fridge and rooted through the freezer, snorting frozen peas with their snouts and chasing off the tapir, and the sink filled up with the claws of crabs and lobsters tossed there by possums who were feasting on top of the crockery shelf. After that I think some more reptiles came, and there may have been antelope, but I can’t say for certain because I left the room and went outside to get away from all the racket.