Reluctantly, as darkness fell, he agreed to compromise. Standing in for his crown was a paper hat from an Xmas cracker, he substituted a kitchen sieve for his net, and in place of his Lucky Jam Jar he used an as-yet unopened jar of strawberry jam. Armed with these and his Extra-Brite Military Grade LED Torch he headed out into the garden.
'This is hopeless, New Dad!' he complained. 'I shall never be able to see an ant like this, and anyway, they'll all be asleep in their nests!'
'Look! There!' I exclaimed, deftly flicking one of his dried ants in front of him.
He played along, picking up the immobile creature and examining it by torch light.
'Hmmm,' he remarked, suspiciously. 'It appears to be dead.' He sniffed it. 'And lightly coated in chocolate. But needs must, I suppose!'
It's not as though anyone else suffered from this small deceit — after all, he is the only anteater in the village, so no one has been cheated out of the title Ant King of Uckfield 2016.
We adjourned to the kitchen, W wearing his paper crown and chewing disconsolately on the ant while I followed behind carrying the sieve and jam jar.
'This,' he announced, 'has been the worst National Ant Day ever!'
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