It was a sad day for the pudding stomach. A stale mince pie with lunch, and Lord Sainsbury’s cheapest nibbles after dinner. Actually, I say ‘dinner’, but that’s not entirely accurate. Last night was my work team’s Christmas party – and the recession seemed to have hit the establishment hard. Our annual reward was a sadly sparse feast of floppy quiches, papery pastries, and mucus-like dips, dotted out over the basement table.
Assigned to the furthest corner was a small assortment of plastic boxes: cakey squares acquired in a super-cheap toofer arrangement. In the interests of this blog (and to placate my dissatisfied tum), I sampled two of everything. Brave of me, I know, but there’s nothing I won’t do in the name of pudding.
As I hinted in the first line of this post, the results were disappointing. The cookies were tiny and surprisingly lacking in both chocolate AND texture, the flapjack would have been better for building walls, and the box of Celebrations was… just like a box of Celebrations always is. Miniature Mars Bars? Twixes? Snickers? Why bother? They’re just too small. Not to mention boring. I ate them because they were there, not because I wanted to. And that is not the way I like to play it.
On the plus side, the miniature cornflake cakes weren’t half-bad. Until I started munching them with mouthfuls of red wine. My mistake, I know. But no wonder I felt so sick.