Rated: Waitrose’s Butterscotch & Pecan Danish Swirl.

Go on, give it a swirl

The Pecan Pud Canon continues

What? An oversized circular Danish, dotted with Pecans and shaped like a windmill.

Though it looks fairly plain and dry in its tin, when warmed in the oven it turns into something quite spectacular: by turns crisp, flaky, buttery, soft, and soggy from hidden reserves of BUTTERSCOTCH SAUCE (*drool*).

As if that wasn’t exciting enough, the Pastry itself is suffused with Cinnamon – clearly, whoever designed it was a genius (or out to reel me in with a dish that contains all my favourite things).

The only thing I took issue with was the recommended serving size: though hardly large, one Swirl is supposed to feed FOUR PEOPLE.

Heck knows who could possibly stop at a quarter – not this Pud-Hog, that’s for sure.

Then again, when it comes to counting calories, even this (apparently ‘four-person’) flake-fest works out healthier than a single Caramel Pecanbon.

When you think of it that way, the idea of having a second slice doesn’t seem nearly as naughty…

Where? From the shelves of your nearest Waitrose (home of the infamous Sugar Mouse Biscuit)

How Much? Currently on offer at £2.32 (normally £3.49)

Rating? 9/10

Go ahead, Ogglers: give it a swirl


The Millionaires Ice Cream Bombe.

Tick tock…

Is there anything more extravagant than an Ice Cream Cake? The whole concept smacks of impracticality: once you’ve taken it out and served the thing there’s no going back.

Too few of you clustered around the table and things start to get obscene pretty quickly. Unable to refreeze it you have only two choices: either stuff your face or watch in dismay as the leftovers melt into oblivion.

I recently faced this dilemma myself. With four of us craving sugar after a splendid Indian feast, someone had to go out and buy dessert.

The brief, to suit all appetites, was this: costing less than £5 it had to be both gooey and exciting – with a generous serving of Chocolate to boot.

Our emissary returned with a Millionaires Ice Cream Bombe from Sainsbury’s, plating it up to a round of applause. He had covered all the bases. Not only was it studded (and topped) with Chocolate-covered Biscuit nuggets, but inside was the excitement and the goo:

A.K.A. a raunchy Caramel filling

Extravagant indeed!

Especially when you consider that we’d eaten less than half before feeling full.

What to do with the rest though? After softening a little at room temperature it was clearly at its best: smooth and melty without having made the full transition to liquid.

The contrast in textures was lovely too: crunch and goo; hard and soft. But soon it would all just be damp. And, with none of us fancying full-fat Milkshakes for several days, all would go to waste…

Some of the group stayed strong, recognising the madness of trying to finish the lot.

Others, however, metaphorically (and literally) decided to step up to the plate.

Seconds went down all right, but proved more than enough for my comrades. Alone, I soldiered on, but the third bowl of richness was perhaps a bowl too many.

Damn you, Ice Cream Bombe! I cried. Are you trying to make me obese?!

With a quarter still dripping defiantly, it seemed like I was fighting a losing battle.

Thankfully, minutes later, we were saved by a stray housemate, who mercifully ate the last of it, putting us out of our misery.

Even so, the damage had been done. Though thoroughly delicious, I realised I could never buy another one: the Bombe had lived up to its name, and gone off far too quickly.

It was time for the Pud-Hog to call for a truce. And a very long lie-down indeed.

The Pineapple Upside-Down Cake Conundrum.

Think about it. Pineapple Upside-Down Cake is a pretty strange concept.

For starters, why the pineapple? It’s a fruit that rarely features in other cakes (possibly because it’s way too sweet without the sugary batter).

However, just about every Upside-Down Cake has pineapple rings on the top (or do I mean the bottom?).

Is this prominence just for aesthetic reasons? Or is there something else?

Also – while we’re asking questions – why is it called Upside-Down Cake? Before you start measuring my head for a dunce cap, I know it gets turned out on to a plate when you serve it – but so do most cakes that come out of a tin.

Plenty of puddings are in the same boat (Summer Pudding, for example). But we don’t draw attention to their Upside-Down natures now, do we?

Maybe it’s because Pineapple Cake sounds too boring…


You’ll have to excuse these meandering thoughts. We tried one from Waitrose at the weekend, you see, and once I started pondering, I couldn’t really stop.

As cakes go, it was certainly strange.

Out of the packet, Rightside-Up, it didn’t look like much.

It looked like this, to be precise

After heating it up and turning it out on the plate, however, we were confronted with a lurid landscape of glacé cherries and pineapple rings.

I repeat: it was strange. Like an alien amoeba, or some kind of deep sea specimen.

Just don’t let it too near your eyeballs…

A translucent jelly-like substance covered the top, so I scooped up a blob with my finger and gave it a taste. It was sweet but not that sweet; not sticky or syrupy in texture – more like an edible hair gel.

It hadn’t soaked in to the sponge like I’d thought it might, either (as usual, I’d hoped for lots of goo). Instead, it sat upon the top: a layer of film to preserve the fruit, presumably – and lubricate its exit from the cardboard tray.

Doesn’t sound too appealing, does it?

Then perhaps you’ll be surprised as I was to discover it tasted rather good. The sponge was super light, but not dry in the slightest (despite the fact that the topping – or bottoming – hadn’t soaked in).

I can’t say I was convinced by the glacé cherries (too gaudy in taste and appearance) but the pineapple rings were lovely and succulent.

From time to time as I munched my way through, my teeth encountered a crisp edge of sponge, where some of the sugar had started to caramelise. These bits were very nice indeed – but too few and far between for my liking.

As far as I can remember it’s the only Upside-Down Cake I have tried. However, since looking at how to make it and talking to some of my pals, I’ve learned it probably wasn’t that authentic.

Mainly, I’ve heard that the topping is supposed to be far richer: more like a sticky toffee glaze, with plenty of crunchy caramel bits – the ones I was missing here.

It sounds delicious. And maybe it helps with my questions a little…

You see, before I heard about this glaze, I thought all Upside-Down Cakes must be covered in weird clear jelly. Why didn’t people just spread this out on the top, I wondered? It wasn’t that good of a lubricant, after all – the fruit stuck still to the cardboard.

Then again, if you’re pouring butter and sugar in your tin (as most recipes seem to demand), it must caramelise with the fruit against the metal, creating a lush, crispy layer when baked.


The big question still remains, however: why pineapple?

Is it down to an extremely prolific ad campaign from tinned fruit salesmen? A celebrated recipe that everybody nicked? A cake from a time with a fresh fruit shortage?

Or are pineapples inherently the best choice for the job?

Scrap Wikipedia. If there was ever a time for Wikipudia it is NOW.

Bun Fun.

As you regular Ogglers know by now, one of my favourite activities of a weekday evening is to peruse the discounted bakery shelves at Waitrose. It doesn’t always work out for the best – that crazy Sugar Mouse Biscuit being an excellent case in point – but when everything’s under twenty pence, you can’t go too far wrong.

Just the other day, the Man and I spotted some discounted buns of various shapes and sizes, most of which were new to our local store. Intrigued – and game for some Bun Fun – we bought three to try them out.

Would any of them be as delicious as Cinnabon? Only one way to find out…

No. 1. The Knot Cross Bun:

Hot or Knot?

Mwahahaha – see what they did there? Knot Cross? Not Hot Cross?

Seriously though, I know I sound like I’m taking the piss but I promise you I’m [k]not. I love a good pun (not just a good bun), and this is, indeed, a Hot Cross Bun that has been stretched and knotted before baking. Frankly, as I’m sure you’ll agree, to call it anything else would have just been absurd.

So: does a knotted Hot Cross Bun taste any different from a normal one?

Er… no.

It might be fun for kiddies and rope-obsessed sailors, but if you’re expecting anything magical here you might be disappointed.

Then again, as Hot Cross Buns go it’s quite a nice one: doughy, packed with dried fruit, and beautiful after a few seconds warmed in the microwave.

Verdict: pleasant enough, but nothing special. 3/5

No. 2. The Chelsea Bun:

What’s that? No picture?

OK, Ogglers. I’ll come clean: I ate it before the camera came out. Sorry!

I do love a Chelsea Bun, you see, and this was rather good (perhaps even, dare I say it, slightly tastier than the Fitzbillies version…).

My other excuse for not having a photo is that I thought you all probably knew what a Chelsea Bun looked like by now (if not, you can see it on this Waitrose page of buns).

Anyway, as the speed of its disappearance might imply, I thought it was very tasty. Not as good as Cinnabon (or Mimi’s home-made Cinnabon substitutes), but excellent given its normal R.R.P. of 89p (a fraction of the price – and calories – of its weighty American counterparts).

The Waitrose Chelsea Bun was soft, the currants nice and juicy, and the cinnamon strong to taste. Of course, it could have been much gooier for my liking (isn’t that always the way?) but then it wouldn’t have been quite so English (i.e. true to its Waitrose roots).

Verdict: not bad, Mr Waitrose. Not bad at all. 4/5

No. 3. The Saffron Bun:

A Saffron Bun? For 89p tops? Hmm…

Now this is a newbie in the Pud-Hog canon. It’s a pretty exciting concept in Bun terms too: a shining yellow square made with the world’s most expensive spice.

In my India days, I had a few yoghurty drinks made with saffron. It lends things a slightly strange flavour – rich, full, and very aromatic – but I liked it.

Shame none of that flavour was evident here.

I suppose it’s not surprising – the bun is suspiciously cheap for something containing the world’s most expensive spice – but surely the name is a little misleading.

In fact, having now looked at the ingredients list, I can tell you saffron comes in seventeenth place. In other words, there are sixteen ingredients appearing in larger quantities.


Perhaps it should be called the ‘Wheat-flour-currants-raisins-water-sugar-rapeseed-oil-mixed-peel-pasteurised-free-range-egg-invert-sugar-syrup-yeast-palm-oil-raising-agents-disodium-diphosphate-potassium-hydrogen-carbonate-maize-glucose-syrup-emulsifier-mono-and diacetyl-tartaric-acid-esters-of-mono-and-diglycerides-of-fatty-acids-salt-milk-proteins Bun’?

OK. That’s probably a little unfair. I expect the Cinnabon ingredients list is far more lengthy and alarming. And at least Waitrose doesn’t use artificial colours or flavours (even though they do use Palm Oil – BOO! HISS!).

Even so, I think there is a valid point to make. This isn’t really a Saffron Bun. It’s a Currant Bun with Saffron.

It also tasted more like mixed peel than anything else, but that’s another story…

Verdict: call Trading Standards! Tasty enough, but loses points for a misleading name (and falsely raising my expectations). 2/5

Well, Ogglers. That’s the end of the taste test for now, but maybe I’ll do some more soon. Waitrose sells Marlborough and Bath Buns too – if the price is right, I’ll buy up a couple next time I’m in store…



I can’t believe it’s been eight months, and I’ve never once written a post about flapjacks.


I’m not talking about the American/Canadian kind (i.e. Pancakes) – though, in fairness I love those too. No, I’m talking about those oaty slabs of golden goodness which make cereal bars look like compacted sawdust.

Now THAT’S what I’m talking about

Today’s reveries were triggered by a box of mini flapjack squares from Sainsbury’s. Unusually for those cheapo mix-and-match supermarket tubs, they were actually pretty darn good. Almost as good as home-made, in fact.

Chewy, soft, with a texture not unlike fudge, they made for extremely moreish eating. When I looked a little closer, I found out why: their main ingredient (aside from oats) was sweetened condensed milk.



Still, however good they might have been, they weren’t a patch on the best flapjacks I’ve ever had. Made and shared out by the Man’s side of the family, these wondrous slices were initially (and accidentally) created by his late Grandad.

A bit too much of the naughtier things, a dish that wasn’t quite wide enough, and hey presto! A batch of super rich, super thick, super gooey flapjack that nobody can turn down. Thankfully, the ‘mistake’ has been passed on and even now squabbles break out over who can start eating them first.

Not that I join in or anything (promise), but blimey, they’re worth fighting for.

You might think that flapjacks are supposed to be slightly healthy. That they should be packed with dried fruit and seeds.

Please. Allow me to correct you.

Now that I’ve seen the light (and tasted the best of the best), I can honestly say that anything dry, crispy or healthy is just a gorgeous flapjack-opportunity missed.

Why wouldn’t you want those dreamy golden syrup tones? What possible benefit is there to reducing all the fat? I mean, really. If you want to eat something healthy, don’t desecrate a well-known classic. That would just be criminal.

If it makes you feel less guilty, at least even the naughtiest flapjacks still have oats. Good at reducing cholestorol, preventing heart disease, controlling your blood sugar level and plenty more besides, at least you can cling to that when your teeth fall out from too much golden syrup.

As always, I have your best interests at heart. Don’t thank me though, Ogglers.

I’m just a humble Hog doing my humble pud-eating job.


The Choco Softie Mallow Wafer Bucket.

In case you hadn’t noticed it’s the Fourth of July. So what better way to celebrate the independence of America from Britannia than the most un-English pudding I’ve bought in yonks? I’m talking, of course, about the Choco Softie Mallow Wafer Bucket.


I kid you not, Ogglers. It may look like the kind of thing you’d store beneath your kitchen sink, but it is, in fact, a bucket filled with sugary treats. No expense spared on logos, fancy packaging or even a catchy name: just a humble plastic bucket of wafers, so anonymous it looks sordid – kind of like the entrance to a sex shop.

Now, in case you were wondering why on earth I bought this plastic monstrosity (600g of chocolate-covered wafers in a container bigger than my head), let me give you a spot of background.

Firstly (and this might not come as a great surprise to many of you), I bought this bucket from Lidl’s supermarket, home to all that is weird and wonderful by way of European imports.

In case you’ve never been there yourself, let me assure you that Lidl is rammed with this kind of stuff: things that look strange and suspiciously cheap, but are usually quite delicious.

Having dined on their apricot lebkuchen squares (fabulous) and swooned over their spiced chocolate almonds (ditto), I know how good these things can be – in other words, don’t judge a pud by its packet (especially not when that packet’s bucket-shaped – something you regulars know I’m quite keen on).

Anyway, the biggest motivation I had to buy this was not the Lidl brand, nor the fantasy of dining in true Hog fashion – or that it cost a reasonable £3.49. It wasn’t even the promise of a product without ‘artificial colours, flavours, or sweeteners’ (no matter how good that promise is).

Oh no.

It was the three little words on the side which won me over: ‘Suitable for Vegetarians.’

As many of you will be aware, much of my life as a Pud-Hog has been spent in search of elusive gelatin-free marshmallows. As a result, on the rare occasions I find some for sale, I pretty much have to try them.

And so it was, that before I really knew what I was doing, the Choco Softie Mallow Wafer Bucket was mine.

Nestled within, on the other side of that sketchy blurred plastic exterior, was a medley of exotic treats, none of which I’d ever seen before.

With four different types to choose from, I prepared myself to embark on a pioneering voyage. The stakes were high – I was lumbered with 600g of the stuff, after all. If I decided I didn’t like them, they could be quite hard to shift…

Those Choco Softie Wafers in full

In the safety of the Hog-House, I opened the bucket up, quaking with the thrill of the unknown. The first thing I learnt? Things were going to get sticky – and fast. These mallows weren’t as solid as they looked – not like the filling of a pink wafer biscuit – more like those jars of Fluff you can buy from the States.

Not that that’s a bad thing…

I worked through the flavours one by one, choosing to save the most intriguing (i.e. the white chocolate-covered blob) for last.

Soon, with a bite of the milk chocolate-covered oblong, I had had my first taste of wafer. Like a cross between paper and cardboard, it sadly lacked the crunch I’d hoped to hear.

Nevertheless, I found it oddly comforting, and the white mallow filling helped make up for the minor disappointment. Springy, squidgy and sweet, it oozed from each edge with every bite. In a matter of seconds I’d gobbled it up, enjoying myself despite the cheap quality chocolate.

Next was the coconut oblong: a double-layer of mallow sandwiched between three wafers, covered again in the same lacklustre milk chocolate. You know my thoughts on dessicated coconut (in a word: ambivalent), and it felt kind of arbitrary here, with such a light scattering you could barely taste or feel it.

Even so, to eat such a thick wedge of wafer in one was extremely luxurious as experiences go – almost slutty, if I’m honest.

The filth continued with a gnaw on the fruity pink/white concoction (possibly flavoured with strawberry – hard to tell among all that sweetness and paper).

Then I moved on to the white chocolate blob.

It had to be the best one, didn’t it? The one that I had only three of. Only three in a whole giant bucket.

Alas and alack.

Still, I suppose three is better than none (even if the other two did get squashed in transit). After all, these were the kinds of mallows I’d hoped for: a great big mouthful of chocolate and fluff, with only a small piece of wafer to spoil the fun. Gone too quickly, I wish I’d had more in my bucket to play with.

Instead I have about 530g of oblong treats to go.

This voyage could take me a while…

The Pine Fresh Mouse Biscuit.

When I think of Waitrose, I tend to think sophisticated. More than any other supermarket I can think of, it’s a haven for the upper-middle class: the only high street shop in which you will reliably find duck eggs, Prince Charles’s very own snack brand (Duchy Originals), and more than one type of salmon.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, it’s also the supermarket with the best baked goods: freshly made pastries, cakes, and bread – many of which, by the end of the day, are usually marked down to just a few pennies, in order to make way for more.

At least once a week, this is where the Man and I get our thrills (and the goods to top up our freezer). Get the timing right and we can find loaves of bread for 29p, cheap pots of cream and bottles of milk, discounted trays of sushi (down to 59p from a fiver), and anything else that might be approaching the end of its shelf-life.

The best bargains, of course, are the things you’ve been coveting for weeks, but could not really justify buying at full price. Then you have reason to snap it up quickly, punch the air, and run to the tills guilt-free.

On Friday, this happened to me. The product that did it? A Waitrose-own made Sugar Mouse Biscuit, normally priced at £1.39 – reduced to 15p.

Sugar Mouse Biscuit: the diabetic's death-wish.

As I’m sure you’ll understand – considering the amount of icing and colour involved – these biscuits had caught my eye on several occasions. Given the grown-up type cakes Waitrose generally sells (almond croissants, organic scones, egg custard tarts), they stuck out like a basket of sore thumbs.

Besides, it had been so long since I’d eaten a sugar mouse (at least a decade – perhaps nearer two) that I yearned for a mini nostalgia trip.

Opting for a mouse in my favourite colour (green), I popped it in the paper bag, counted out my fifteen pennies, and hurried home, looking forward to having a taste. I’ll admit, I was kind of sceptical about the concept. A whole sugar mouse? On a thick bed of iced biscuit? Surrounded by multicoloured sweets? It sounded and looked absurd – like the kind of biscuit a hyperactive toddler would make, if left to their own devices.

Saying that, however, I wanted it to work, and – still buoyed up with thoughts of  To Hell With It – was more than prepared to indulge. After all, this was a product made by Waitrose: the only major supermarket with a Royal Warrant. Besides, at 15p, it was definitely worth the risk.

Later that night, when the time for pudding finally arrived, I wasn’t quite sure how to eat it. Leave the mouse on or remove it? In the end, I snapped off its head (caring vegetarian that I am), so I could sample a piece on its own – the rest stayed where it was.

My first thought as its head met my tongue? Not glorious rose-tinted memories of visiting sweet shops with Ma Hog, but… toilet cleaner. Pine Fresh toilet cleaner, to be precise.

I kid you not, Ogglers. In Waitrose Sugar Mouse World, green means pine: soapy, antibacterial pine. Goodness only knows what the pink ones taste like. Calamine lotion? Brasso? Corn plasters?

Perhaps that’s how green sugar mice are supposed to taste – maybe I’ve misremembered my youth (I never had mice that often, you see). Then again, I can’t help thinking that children would prefer a different flavour, like mint, apple or just plain sugar (actually, the more I think about it, the more likely it seems that a deaf guy runs the factory: ‘What was that? Lime? I thought you said Pine.’).

Mouse aside, however, there were more disappointments were in store: that tempting looking white icing (which I had smelt so deeply in the bag) was not a lovely soft buttercream like I’d hoped, but an almost aggressively hard layer of spikes and peaks. In fact, the whole thing was a bit of a punch in the mouth: crunchy biscuit, unyielding frosting, dense mouse, sturdy candied pieces. I’m amazed my teeth survived unscathed.

Sweetness levels were incredibly high as well, though I suppose that was no surprise. By the time I finished, I could feel a headache on the way, and wondered what the Waitrose folks were thinking. Who exactly were they aiming to sell this to? If I was a kid – and had the kid’s ability to process otherwise-life-threatening amounts of sugar – I suppose I might shell out the £1.39. Then again, if I was a kid, I doubt I’d be shopping in Waitrose.

It seems more likely, then, that these biscuits were made for people who have kids. If that really is the case – and you are one of those people – I’d suggest you might like to steer clear: a few bites of this and your child will be out of this world, flying high on a green sugared spaceship.

Now I think of it though, there is one thing they’d be good for: Mums? Dads? Need some baby teeth shedding?

I reckon I have just the thing…

The People’s Supermarket – And The World’s Best Treacle Tart.

In a corner of Bloomsbury, on what is arguably the best-named road in all of London (Lamb’s Conduit Street), is a friendly little shop called The People’s Supermarket. The Man and I initially stumbled across it June 2010, the month in which they first opened their doors.  It was set it up as a food cooperative to be run by locals, providing them with good cheap food and minimising all the waste and landfill that major supermarkets usually generate (something which drives me mad on a regular basis). Members pay a small fee to join, contribute 4 hours every month to helping out in-store, and get a discount on their shopping in return.

TPS has always attempted to compete with the big name supermarkets, but because of its size is not always able to match them on price. What they have always done, however, is bloody lovely puddings.

In fact, their range of desserts has even included THE BEST treacle tart I have ever had the pleasure to digest: lovely thick pastry, deep sticky filling and deliciously moist treacle-soaked breadcrumbs – all home-made by local baking lovelies in their kitchen. Honestly, it was so perfect that I almost cried. THE. BEST.

Their pecan tart was similarly drool-inducing. And as for the raspberry chocolate brownie: dark, dense and delightfully squidgy.

On Tuesday, along with my bag of Bea’s-made beauties, the Man brought home a treat from The People’s Supermarket:  a thick square of banana, sultana and carrot cake. Mmm. But with it came some rather sad news: TPS weren’t doing so well with their rent, and were dangerously near to closing down. NOOOOOOOO! Where would I get my treacle tart? And where, dear Ogglers, would you??

So. If you happen to live in the London area I suggest you drop in and stockpile a load of their wonderful cake – it’ll probably be the best investment you make this year (and might even help them back out of the red). If that’s not incentive enough, I hear they’re doing a Bake Off next week to raise funds and promote Fairtrade Fortnight (consider me firmly in attendance). There’s also an online petition to sign (click here if you’ve got a spare minute).

This is serious, folks: the world of Treacle Tart could barely suffer such a loss. If I’m honest, neither could I.

Pud-Hog’s Home for Lost Puddings.

Supermarkets and I have a very love/hate relationship. They’re handy, yes, and provide me with lots of my pudding supplies, but some of the things they do make me really cross. The biggest, most infuriating thing is all the waste. Seemingly arbitrary sell-by dates mean they chuck out things which are still completely fine to eat. I’m sure you’ve seen it yourself: everyday, at about 8p.m., the latest row of victims is lined up for their final plea, from a shelf in the reduced section. I’ve seen green bananas with days of life left in them, countless tubs of cream and yoghurt, sackfuls of potatoes, and numerous boxes of cakes and puddings, all destined for the bin behind the store.

Nothing makes me sadder.

They might as well be wearing hoods, plastered with stickers that read ‘condemned’. And my instinct is always to save them – but I can’t.

As hoggish as I am, I just don’t have the appetite or freezer-space to take them all under my wing. Besides, a lot of the time, despite being reduced, they still cost more than my budget allows. But not always…

Yesterday evening, I managed to turn up at Sainsbury’s at just the right time. They were starting their second wave of reductions, and an apple pie which had already fallen to under £2, was swiftly reduced to 69p. Score. I bought it, of course, and me and my chum ate it after our dinner, served hot with a nice scoop of ice cream. For some strange reason, a pudding tastes much finer when it’s bargainous. Perhaps that near-bin experience enhances the flavour. Who knows?

Anyway, as I crunched my way through that thick pastry, I couldn’t help but mourn for all the desserts I hadn’t rescued. The homeless. The unloved. Shivering in bins around the city. It seriously boggles my mind that anyone in London – nay, England can go hungry, considering the volume of food waste that these supermarkets generate. Still, at least most of them offer a discount first. In my local M&S Food, all the unbought goods in their bakery section – cookies, croissants, bread, everything – are gathered in a plastic bag and thrown into locked bins each night, without even being reduced. Shame on you, Messers Marks and Spencer! Why must you be so selfish?

The first time I saw that big plastic bag, I begged the guy to hand it over. I could find a home for all those pastries, I said. But no. They wouldn’t let me have it.

Perhaps I should set up a sanctuary: the Pud-Hog’s Home for Lost Puddings; Gog Codd’s Pud-Pod; something like that. People could come for miles around to meet (and eat) my babies.

It’s definitely something I’d consider…

In the meantime, should you happen live near a supermarket that doesn’t hide its bins under lock and key, I suggest you go a-diving. There’s a whole load of decent free food out there, in desperate need of a loving new home. Your stomach would be just the thing.