I distinctly remember saying to my father, that the only reason Lou wanted to cook chocolate brownies at my house last night was so that in the event that things went horribly wrong, she could tell her work colleagues that it was my fault. Surprise surprise.

Things didn't really turn out the way we had hoped. Things started promisingly, I mean, we had two packet mixes, and actually had all the ingredients. Lou bought extra eggs as well, forgetting that my mother holding fast to her bogan roots, and owns two chickens, that regularly lay eggs in between their raids into the neighbours yard to rip up her lawn and plants.

Lou and I poured, mixed and cooked away to our hearts content. Actually, I was the one that cooked to my hearts content... I actually took the brownies out of the oven about 5 minutes too early. Hey, I did the *skewer* test AND the *bounce back when you jam your finger into the cake* test, and it seemed fine... so I took it out.

Later on, just before we iced the brownies, Lou decided that they were not yet cooked, and decided to put them back into the now severely broken oven. On the top shelf. Under high heat.

After a couple of minutes, we could tell that the oven was trying to speak to us... smoke signals started pumping out the top of the stove and oven... After about 2 minutes of deciphering this smoke signal code, we realised what the message was....

(Begin Transmission) "So... *cough*... hot in.... hot in here!... burning! *cough* I cant *gasp* breathe... ugh... Abort!! Abort!!... *cough* Get out while you still can.... give my love to the *gasp* girl scouts brownie movement... *cough* (End transmission)

We all stared at the oven as the realisation of the whole situation had come to hit us... Lou had decided to grill the top of the brownies, turning the top layer to charcoal. The black kind of charcoal.

Lou was pretty cut up by this stage, because she knew that she was in for a lot of ribbing at work the next day, when she turned up for the lunch party with nothing but a handful of ash.

Dad went into salvage mode, attempting to cut the whole burnt section off the top of the brownie carcass. It didnt work. He ended up with 3/4 of a mangled brownie sludge, that had now been pressed through the metal cake rack, slicing it into extremely long fingers that were now stuck firm to the bench.

After 5 half hearted minutes of icing the brownies, which was like trying to put a pretty pink collar and bow on a dead cat, Lou finally admitted defeat, and decided to abort the brownie mission.

But not before trying to get a photo of ME posing with the Brownies, so she could attempt to shift all the blame, and use the picture as evidence that it was ME who killed the brownies.

Leave brownies to the girl scouts.

I am Wil, and this is my story.