Son, then about 6 (now 34) asked if he could make his own breakfast one Sunday morning when we fancied a lie in. His favourite at the time was Weetabix in milk, warmed in the microwave and he’d watched his mum do it hundreds of times. So we said yes.
All went suspiciously quiet so I went down to the kitchen, just as the smoke alarm started beeping to be met by a cloud of the most acrid, choking, black smoke.
The dry Weetabix in the microwave was burnt to a cinder with a red glowing centre. It smelled like burning plastic and it took months to get rid of the smell. He thought he would add the milk afterwards. God knows how long he’d set if for.