Halfway through the dinner (a nice winter-y beefy stew for a slightly wintery evening) that the boy had lovingly cooked, I noticed it.
A weta, curled up in foetal position, was quietly lying in my stew.
The boy, who is greatly disquieted by all bugs but especially wetas, was more distressed than I was.
I told myself it was just as well that it wasn't half a weta that I found in my dinner.
We still haven't figured out how on earth in got there.