The Candy Man Can
My daughter is obsessed by all things Willy Wonka. So much so, I have the Oompa Loompa song imprinted into my brain, actually, make that branded into my brain. She trails around the house, when not whining about watching Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory, humming what is slowing become her theme tune. When I asked if SHE was an Oompa Loompa, all I got was a tut and dirty look that only a 2 year old could give.
Every cloud has a silver lining, and it’s important I remember this. While we’ve been subjected to Gene Wilder doing his thing at least five times this weekend I now have all the ammunition I need to manipulate Madam into doing pretty much anything (evil cackle). She wouldn’t eat her lunch until I announced it was Willy Wonka Macaroni. Wolfed it straight down. A temper tantrum narrowly diverted by telling her that Willy Wonka wouldn’t like her to behave in that way. Wonderful. Thank Gene.
And the s-w-e-e-t-s ? While she drools like a St Bernard over the lollipops and sings like Bonnie Langford that “the Candyman can” we’ve managed to divert any demands.
Back in the day when I was still in knee highs, and enjoying Albion Market of a Friday evening, we had a house rule. The only sweets we were allowed were on Fridays, which were imaginatively entitled Sweetie Night. Dad would come home bearing two white paper bags full to the brim (or seemed to be) with penny sweets.
We have the same rule. Of sorts. The Munchkin, following a weeks worth of good behaviour is allowed on a Saturday morning only, to go with her Daddy to choose a lollipop at the local sweet shop. Never have you seen such happiness for 5 pence spent.
So it’s true. The Candy Man can, only just in moderation.
