Biscuits for Breakfast

It is morning
and I am seven years old.
Saturdays are better than Sundays,
because on Sundays Dad gets up early,
to prepare the chicken.
He hauls it, buttered and bare
into the medieval chicken brick
which weighs heavy on the oven shelves,
and we wake to roasting smells.
Saturdays, we sleep in.
My sister sleeps through hurricanes,
and Mum and Dad do not stir.
I wake up and get bored.
I try to comb my hair into a perfect ponytail,
no bumps, just smooth,
but it never works and I throw the comb
at my pile of toys.
I sneak downstairs.
You have to walk on the sides of the steps
so they do not creak.
I try not to look out of the front door window
in case of monsters.
I creep into the kitchen,
grab three malted milk biscuits
and sit under the dining room table,
laying the biscuits on the foot rest.
It is raining outside,
and blobs of silver are pinging off dark branches.
There is not a sound in the house,
but the sheen of falling rain on windows
and the crunch of my biscuits.
I go back upstairs,
slink into bed (it's still warm)
and curl down with my Strawberry ted
and wait for sounds.
Dad gets up, puts on his brown dressing gown,
and in the doorway signals a letter 'T' with his hands.
I nod, and wait for him to bring the tea tray upstairs.
I hear Mum say "Lovely" and the clink of cup and saucer.
Dad brings tea to me, and a sneaky malted milk.
"Don't tell Mum," he whispers, and walks off to make toast.
I sting with shame,
and eat the biscuit anyway.