Table Grubs

Name’s Grandpa Grub. Flat cap, fine beard, more scars than a garden gate. And I’ve been asked to tell you about Table Grubs. Gather round.

There’s a whole world on your kitchen table now. Grass, logs, a babbling stream, and grubs. Hundreds of ’em, wriggling about like they own the place. They don’t. You do. Or you will, once you catch ’em.

Catching. Tweezers, jars, box traps, nets: take your pick. Give a log a good shake and see who tumbles out. Mind your grip, though. A wriggly one will slip right through your fingers. Ask me how I know.

Feeding. Pop your catch in a pen and let your Grubs gobble up the little ‘uns. Whatever they eat decides what they grow into. Spikes, horns, wings, the works. Some of ’em come out looking like a hedge that’s had a fright. Lovely.

Gardening. Water the grass and keep it green. Green grass grows big grubs; brown grass grows sulking. And keep an eye out for spiders. Nasty business, spiders.

Fighting. Come sunset, an arena drops right onto your table. You lead your three champions out on their little ropes, give the gong a whack, and off they go: charging, slamming, flinging rivals clean over the wall. Bang the drums and the crowd’ll throw coins at you. Win five fights and you’ve won the run. Lose, and you can hear all about how I’d have done it.

And when you’ve had your fill of fighting:

The Beauty Contest: brush ’em up, dress ’em up and get ’em on a film poster. In my day we didn’t have posters. We had mud.

My War Stories: I’ll tell you