Tuesday November 8, 2005
“I have this sudden and irresitable urge to eat cheap British chocolate,” I said. “Lots of cheap British chocolate.”
“I finished that bar of Dairy Milk at tea time,” Graham said. “Do we have any more?”
“Nope. Just posh Belgian stuff.”
“Well, unless you’re going to drive over to Tesco’s in the dark, you’re stumped, then. Close your eyes and try to imagine those Belgian choccies are Cadbury’s finest.”
“I’ll try. Can’t really think in terms of driving thirty miles for a bar of chocolate.”
Didn’t work. Much as I love good Continental chocolate, it’s not the same. Sometimes only the traditional, cheap, British kind will do. I was fingering my car keys, wondering if my perverse appetite would last all the way to Tesco’s and back, when I had a sudden brainwave.
“‘Ere!” I exclaimed. “There’s that box of fun-size choccies I got for Hallowe’en and didn’t use ‘cos the kiddies didn’t come out. Have you finished that?”
“Back of the fridge.”
“Haven’t seen it.”
“Do us a favour and have a rummage, then. Blessed fridge is too low down for me.”
Moments later he emerged bearing a plastic box absolutely stuffed with cheap British chocolate goodies.
“Looks like their loss is your gain,” he said, beaming widely. “Don’t go eating it all at once.”
I didn’t. Just four or five of the bite-sized delicacies satisfied me completely.
“Never thought I’d say it,” I said, patting my happy choccy tummy, “but bless the dear little trick-or-treaters. Especially when they don’t call.”