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The Great Milo Spill and its Terrifying Consequences by Tracey Reed Milo is a crunchy chunky chocolate powder every Aussie kid loves. It goes great with vanilla icecream, especially when you whip the Milo and icecream with your spoon to make a smooth paste. My personal favorite though is two heaped teaspoons of Milo stirred into a glass of icecold milk until the milk turns a chocolateybrown color but still has crunchy Milo bits floating on top. Both my brother Danny and I like our Milo this way. My brother and I have a history with Milo. It goes like this: we make a Milo drink in the kitchen, take it into the lounge room, sit on the floor, face each other and cheerfully sip our Milo. Savoring. Every. Mouthful. At some point we rest our glasses of Milo on the floor and start joking around with each other, and one of us spills our Milo on the carpet. Mum gets really mad, gives us a terrifying lecture about watching what we are doing, makes us clean up the mess, and then sends us to our rooms for some time out. Danny and I skulk off to our rooms feeling blue, but we are certain we have learned the lesson and will never spill Milo again. But we do spill our Milo again. Take last week for instance. After finishing dinner and washing the dishes Danny and I were in the kitchen making icecold milk Milos. “You ask her,” Danny whispered, cupping both hands around his mouth trying to be secretive. “No, you ask her. She will say yes to you,” I counter. “If you ask her I’ll lend you my red and green cat’seye marble for one week.” “Deal,” I whisper back and then in my most polite voice, “Mum, can we please drink our Milo in the lounge? We promise we will be careful.” Three minutes later Danny had spilled his Milo on the carpet. This spill must have been the final straw for Mum because she went really still, fixed her eyes on us, and instead of yelling at us she said in a very, very serious voice, “If you ever spill your drink in this lounge again I will send you both behind the woolshed where you will wait for me to tan your bums with the polythene pipe. Do you both understand?” Our heads nodded vigorously at Mum, and then we turned to each other and exchanged worried glances. Our mum never said anything she did not mean so we knew if we spilled another Milo in the lounge we were going to get smacked. Guaranteed. And this is bad news, because, well, Danny and I have a habit of spilling our Milo in the lounge. Shoot forward a week. It’s Friday afternoon and the McCann’s from the neighboring farm have popped over for afternoon tea. Danny and I are facing each other sitting crosslegged on the lounge floor. My icecold milk Milo is resting beside my right thigh and I am making funny faces at Danny. He is pretending not to notice (we play this game a lot) and then suddenly he lunges at me. The shock of his sudden movement makes me leap backwards and on the way my

The Great Milo Spill & its Terrifying Consequences

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story about spilling hot drinks in the lounge and the terrible trouble you can get into when this happens

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Page 1: The Great Milo Spill & its Terrifying Consequences

The  Great  Milo  Spill  and  its  Terrifying  Consequences      

by  Tracey  Reed    Milo  is  a  crunchy  chunky  chocolate  powder  every  Aussie  kid  loves.  It  goes  great  with  

vanilla  ice-­‐cream,  especially  when  you  whip  the  Milo  and  ice-­‐cream  with  your  spoon  to  make  a  smooth  paste.  My  personal  favorite  though  is  two  heaped  teaspoons  of  Milo  stirred  into  a  glass  of  ice-­‐cold  milk  until  the  milk  turns  a  chocolatey-­‐brown  color  but  still  has  crunchy  Milo  bits  floating  on  top.  Both  my  brother  Danny  and  I  like  our  Milo  this  way.  

My  brother  and  I  have  a  history  with  Milo.  It  goes  like  this:  we  make  a  Milo  drink  in  the  kitchen,  take  it  into  the  lounge  room,  sit  on  the  floor,  face  each  other  and  cheerfully  sip  our  Milo.  Savoring.  Every.  Mouthful.  At  some  point  we  rest  our  glasses  of  Milo  on  the  floor  and  start  joking  around  with  each  other,  and  one  of  us  spills  our  Milo  on  the  carpet.  Mum  gets  really  mad,  gives  us  a  terrifying  lecture  about  watching  what  we  are  doing,  makes  us  clean  up  the  mess,  and  then  sends  us  to  our  rooms  for  some  time  out.  Danny  and  I  skulk  off  to  our  rooms  feeling  blue,  but  we  are  certain  we  have  learned  the  lesson  and  will  never  spill  Milo  again.  But  we  do  spill  our  Milo  again.  

Take  last  week  for  instance.  After  finishing  dinner  and  washing  the  dishes  Danny  and  I  were  in  the  kitchen  making  ice-­‐cold  milk  Milos.  

“You  ask  her,”  Danny  whispered,  cupping  both  hands  around  his  mouth  trying  to  be  secretive.  

“No,  you  ask  her.  She  will  say  yes  to  you,”  I  counter.  “If  you  ask  her  I’ll  lend  you  my  red  and  green  cat’s-­‐eye  marble  for  one  week.”  “Deal,”  I  whisper  back  and  then  in  my  most  polite  voice,  “Mum,  can  we  please  drink  our  

Milo  in  the  lounge?  We  promise  we  will  be  careful.”  Three  minutes  later  Danny  had  spilled  his  Milo  on  the  carpet.  This  spill  must  have  been  

the  final  straw  for  Mum  because  she  went  really  still,  fixed  her  eyes  on  us,  and  instead  of  yelling  at  us  she  said  in  a  very,  very  serious  voice,  “If  you  ever  spill  your  drink  in  this  lounge  again  I  will  send  you  both  behind  the  woolshed  where  you  will  wait  for  me  to  tan  your  bums  with  the  polythene  pipe.  Do  you  both  understand?”  

Our  heads  nodded  vigorously  at  Mum,  and  then  we  turned  to  each  other  and  exchanged  worried  glances.  Our  mum  never  said  anything  she  did  not  mean  so  we  knew  if  we  spilled  another  Milo  in  the  lounge  we  were  going  to  get  smacked.  Guaranteed.  And  this  is  bad  news,  because,  well,  Danny  and  I  have  a  habit  of  spilling  our  Milo  in  the  lounge.  

Shoot  forward  a  week.  It’s  Friday  afternoon  and  the  McCann’s  from  the  neighboring  farm  have  popped  over  for  afternoon  tea.  Danny  and  I  are  facing  each  other  sitting  cross-­‐legged  on  the  lounge  floor.  My  ice-­‐cold  milk  Milo  is  resting  beside  my  right  thigh  and  I  am  making  funny  faces  at  Danny.  He  is  pretending  not  to  notice  (we  play  this  game  a  lot)  and  then  suddenly  he  lunges  at  me.  The  shock  of  his  sudden  movement  makes  me  leap  backwards  and  on  the  way  my  

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hand  crashes  against  my  glass  of  Milo.  A  brown  pool  of  Milo  briefly  sits  on  the  surface  of  our  smoky  gray  carpet  as  if  teasing  me,  and  then  quietly  absorbs,  leaving  a  large  wet  patch  with  a  few  undissolved  Milo  bits  sitting  on  top.  Our  laughing  turns  to  horror  as  Mum’s  words  suddenly  ring  in  our  ears.  

“Behind  the  woolshed  you  two.  Now!”  Ten  minutes  later  I  am  standing  behind  the  woolshed  scared  witless.  I  can’t  see  Danny  –  

he  is  standing  around  the  corner  –  but  I  can  hear  him  shuffling  his  feet  back  and  forth  in  the  dried  up  grass.  I  know  he  is  as  scared  as  I  am.  I  wonder  if  his  heart  is  pounding  as  fast  and  hard  as  mine,  if  his  hands  are  as  sweaty,  if  he  is  also  shaking  with  fear,  and  if  he  is  trying  to  produce  a  really  good  reason  why  we  don’t  deserve  to  be  whacked  with  the  polythene  pipe.  

My  thinking  is  interrupted  by  the  start  of  my  brother’s  quiet  sobs  and  the  gravely  crunching  sound  of  what  can  only  be  my  mother’s  gumboots  walking  the  path  to  Danny.  

“How  many  times  have  I  told  you  not  to  spill  your  Milo  in  the  lounge?”  I  hear  my  mum  ask.  Danny  tried  to  answer  the  question,  but  couldn’t  get  the  words  in  between  his  great  choking  sobs.  

“Oh  God,”  I  say  to  myself.  This  is  awful.  “And  how  many  times  have  you  spilled  your  Milo  in  the  lounge?”  Quietly  now,  “Maybe…sob,  sob…nine  times.”  I  have  no  idea  where  Danny  came  up  with  such  a  precise  number.  Honestly,  I  have  

absolutely  no  idea  how  many  times  we’ve  spilled  our  Milo  in  the  lounge.  All  I  can  tell  you  is  we  have  spilled  Milo  more  times  than  I  can  remember.  

“Bend  over.”  I  hear  a  maelstrom  of  sound  around  the  corner;  Danny  wailing,  “I’m  sorry  

Mum…choking  sob…I’m  sorry.  Please…”,  the  dog  barking,  polythene  pipe  smacking  against  Danny’s  cut-­‐off  denim  shorts,  Mum  counting  in  a  short,  clipped  way,  “One,  two,  three…”,  and  the  pounding  of  my  heart  in  my  eardrums.  

Oh  God,  I’m  next.  “Eight.  Nine,”  Mum  concludes  her  counting;  one  smack  for  every  spilled  Milo.  And  then  everything  goes  quiet,  except  for  the  sound  of  my  brother’s  muted  sobbing.  A  

licking-­‐your-­‐wound  kind  of  sob  that  tells  me  it  is  over  for  Danny  and  about  to  begin  for  me.  Mum  rounds  the  corner  with  long  purposeful  strides  and  pulls  up  in  front  of  me.  I  look  

from  the  pipe  to  her  face  and  suddenly,  in  a  flash  of  inspiration,  I  know  what  to  say.  She  begins,  “How  many  times  have  I  told  you  not  to  spill  your  Milo  in  the  lounge?”  “Lots  of  times,”  I  reply  with  heartfelt  honesty.  

“And  how  many  times  have  you  spilled  your  Milo  in  the  lounge?”  “Um…I  dunno.  Maybe  once.”  I  see  a  look  flash  across  Mum’s  face,  either  a  grin  or  a  grimace,  but  I  have  no  time  to  

discover  which  because  she  says,  “Bend  over.”  With  my  body  bent  at  the  waist  and  my  head  looking  at  the  view  between  my  legs,  I  see  the  world  behind  me  in  a  weird  upside  down  way.  I  have  a  clear  view  of  my  mother’s  gumboots,  her  tan  cotton  knee-­‐length  shorts,  and  the  hollow  plastic  polythene  pipe  firmly  clasped  in  her  right  hand.  The  pipe  is  black  and  roughly  four  centimeters  in  diameter  with  a  slight  curve  from  top  to  

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bottom.  It  is  scratched  at  one  end  from  years  of  smacking  cattle  rumps  and  I  see  flecks  of  dried  cow  poop  clinging  to  the  surface.  As  I  focus  in  on  the  poop  the  pipe  is  whipped  from  view  and  I  hear  a  swoosh  as  it  rushes  through  the  air  toward  my  bottom.  And  then,  simultaneously,  I  hear  the  sound  of  the  pipe  against  my  trousers  and  feel  the  stinging  sensation  of  hard  black  plastic  rounding  squarely  on  my  bum.  It  hurts  and  I  burst  into  tears.  Sobbing,  I  go  to  stand  thinking  it  is  all  over,  but  then  I  hear  Mum  say,  “Two,”  and  I  know  there  are  eight  more  to  come.