Like a sloth. A dead one.

We've coined a phrase in our house.
Now, if something's slow, its progress imperceptible, if just watching it drains you of the will to live, we don't say it's like watching paint dry. Instead, we say it's like watching The B eat his tea.
Mealtimes are true torture. It's not that The B doesn't eat his meals. It's just that it takes him an absolute age.
In eating terms, he moves with all the speed of a sloth; a dead one.
We've tried various strategies to tackle this issue, but have settled on the most effective: out-and-out bribery, a true friend of the impatient parent.
The B and The G both respond to bribes and, since introducing a sticker chart reward system with some rather attractive end prizes, things have begun to improve.
Today, it was the culmination of The B's mealtime sticker programme, the reward on offer a real piece de resistance. So imagine our dismay, upon removing said treat from its box, to discover that it has been delivered to us broken.
Given that he had worked his way manfully through 18 meals to achieve this particular treat, The B took it remarkably well. Still, it required a sympathetic ear and a roll of gaffer tape to achieve a short-term fix that could satisfy The B.
One quick phone call later and a replacement is en route, due on Thursday, and already, The B has forgotten all about it. The tape is still holding - just - and so is the peace.
It'll soon be tea and without the promise of a reward, for this was the last for the time being, dead sloth time beckons again.