“When they’re gone they’re gone!” My stepfather used to growl whenever we asked him if we could have a chocolate bar from our Christmas selection box.
Even then I used to think,
“Really? You don’t say?! So, I’m wrong in thinking that when I eat the last one that the box will fill up again? Bearing in mind that I’m a product of the seventies, who asks the ice-cream man for broken cones whenever he feels silly enough to visit our large housing estate. Shocking!”
I couldn’t say this, of course: I was scoffing the last one in hope that it gave birth in my overstuffed, chomping mouth.