A beautiful young blonde girl skipped through a field of wheat. 

In years to come she may grey and become an inept Prime Minister, at which point she would fondly reminisce on these care-free, and apparently parent-free days.

Alas, it seemed unlikely. Someone already did that.

Nonetheless, onward she skipped. She wasn’t weighed down by the financial and social pressures of adult life, because she was a child. And it must have been the weekend because she wasn’t in school. And it must have been later on in the morning, because no self-respecting parent is going to let their children skip through a field of wheat on an empty stomach, are they? So surely, it would be fair to imagine that this beautiful blonde girl would have a belly full of breakfast. Porridge, perhaps?

Sure. Let’s say she had some porridge for breakfast, brushed her hair, got herself dressed, and at least showed the toothbrush to her teeth long enough that her parents gave up and sighed ‘that will do’.

Surely.

The girl spotted a small house in the middle of the field and skipped merrily over, where she proceeded to break into and enter the property.

Hang on. Let’s just give her a name: Goldilocks.

So Goldilocks smashed in the front door of this adorably quaint little cottage in the middle of a scenic field of wheat, the mid-morning summer sun beating down on the back of her neck, and entered the property.

In there, she found three chairs, two of which she smashed to pieces on account of being ‘uncomfortable’, before finding one that was comfortable enough to sit in.

But as she sat in the house, rocking back and forth in the small rocking chair, her stomach gurgled.

But surely she had breakfast already, hadn’t she?

Luckily, the occupants had left three bowls of untouched porridge on the table before they went out. A behaviour considered normal in this part of town.

Bizarrely, she found all three to be different temperatures, despite having presumably been dished out from the same pan. Surely?

Anyway, one was too hot, so she smashed the bowl against the kitchen wall.

The next bowl was too cold, so she hurled it out of the window.

The third was just right, so she ate that porridge, despite it not belonging to her, despite her being in someone else’s house.

“Blimey,” she thought to herself, “I’m tired now. I sure hope this house has a bed that’s just right for me to sleep in.”

She was right, of course.

Three beds were ready-made for her upstairs, with fresh sheets on each of them.

One was too lumpy.

One was too, I don’t know, squishy? Sure. Squishy.

But the third, of course, was just right.

And there she slept, without remorse. Until, of course, a family of actual fucking bears came home.

Seeing the smashed up furniture, seeing their breakfast eaten, and seeing their beds unmade, they were understandably livid. So when the three wild animals came across the culprit sleeping in one of the beds, they ripped her limb from limb before eating her guts and her brains and her toe nails.

And after quite an intense cleaning of the bedroom, the bears lived happily ever after.