I reached up for the handle,
pulled down, opened slowly,
stepped out, looked about
and then tiptoed silently
across the hall.

No-one around.
Nobody to witness me embark upon
my epicurean adventure.

The swishing dishwasher winked
as I plonked myself down
silhouetted in fridge-light,
unscrewed and removed the lid
and delved my arm deep
into the jar of my purple passion.
I took my fill greedily,
carefully screwed back the lid
and placed the jar safely
upon the same shelf.

I thought I’d got away with it,
that I had covered my tracks.
My crime would never be discovered.
I was not to know that despite my cunning,
my midnight beetroot euphoria
had left tiny but distinctly purple footprints
leading straight back
to my bedroom door.