Bogie-gate: How can I extract a confession?

Donuts that did, indeed, turn out like Ms Craddock’s

The sun did not shine, 
it was too wet to play.
So we sat in the house 
All that cold, cold wet day.


But instead of Dr Seuss’s deranged feline something else presented itself to fill a soggy Saturday. A crime had been committed at the Palace of Bundance and we – or at least I – needed to find the culprit. 


An investigation was launched and tough questions were asked. There were alibis and accusations and even a reconstruction, but to no avail.


I needed to find the person, or persons, who left a neat row of dried bogies on the back of the leather sofa. Hard, crusty olive green little critters that wouldn’t budge without a damn good scrub or a pick with a fingernail. 


It wasn’t the first time either. A week or so previously I had found an offensive little collection of nostril minings but, as there were no children within yelling range, I had cleaned them off, making a mental note to have a Serious Talk about it. 


However, my mental note fell off my mental pinboard until Saturday when I happened around the back of the sofa. Oh no, there they were again like nasty eyeless insects lurking. But this time I had a room full of suspects. 


“Aha,” I said. “One of you has been wiping his bogies on the back of the sofa. Who is it?”


“Not me,” came the reply, in stereo. “Who then?” I asked looking at Supersister’s dog and the Boy Three, the only other candidates. 


Boy One suggested it might be the Panther of News. I thought this unlikely as he’d have had to get out of the armchair to reach the sofa and he’s a too idle and b not cunning enough. 


Boy Two blamed his little brother, but as Boy Three’s preferred bogie disposal device is my shirt front, I discounted him. 


So there we were – a crime had been committed and both suspects were in the room but admitting nothing. Unless it was a double snotter plot worthy of Agatha Christie one of them was lying. 


I’m perturbed that my dear sons can look me straight in the face and fib their noses off. You’d think I could tell, but I can’t. 


I left them with strict instructions to clean them off together and that if it ever happened again I would punish them both most horribly. 


Meanwhile, Boy One made donuts that he iced in a shade that put me in mind of the mucus mounds that were Exhibit A in the Bogie-gate files. 



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