“Can we have delivered pizza for tea tonight?” asked Belle on Saturday as we walked past Papa Johns. Delivered pizza is her favourite meal. Normal pizza is second.
“No,” I said.
“But we haven’t had pizza for aaaaages!” she complained.
“We had Domino’s on Wednesday,” I reminded her.
“Exactly,” she said, “that’s ages ago!”
“No,” I confirmed, “we aren’t having pizza for tea.”
She was quiet for a little while. I thought she might be hatching some sort of bribe based plan where she would try to negotiate pizza in return for doing a chore that she should be doing regardless, but I was wrong.
“When I grow up and I’m a billionaire,” she told me, completely straight faced as though fame and fortune was a given, a quality I admire in her, “I’m going to have delivered pizza every single day.”
“Don’t you think you might get a bit fat and spotty?”
“No, because I won’t have to go to work so I will go to the gym everyday.”
“Going to the gym doesn’t contain any nutrients,” I pointed out, ever one to pop the billionaire dream bubble. “Besides, I don’t think you have to wait until you are a billionaire, I think you just have to wait until you go to university.”
“Really??” Her eyes were wide and sparkly.
“Yeah, you just spend all your student loan on pizza and beer, I think that’s how it works.”
“Well I’m not going to be silly like that,” she told me, serious again, “I’m going to invest it all in a pension.”