Wednesday 1st April

I’m fighting myself today as I’m still feeling rather serious – but the world does not need more serious-ity on April 1st, so I’ll make a shameful confession instead.

Although this week I’ve been pretty busy with work (much of it unpaid), I made it a mission on Monday to find a supplier of chocolate. You may already know that we are three weeks into lockdown now and I’ve been pretty smug about finding local deliveries of butcher meat, dairy and veg. But since we can’t get a supermarket slot for love nor money, it’s the contraband that’s running out.

You know what I mean; the guilty shopping secrets that none of us would normally share.  

I’m not talking embarrassing basics like hemorrhoid cream and incontinence pads. They’re just a fact of life ??. The truth is I’m more concerned about unhealthy foods that don’t fit the image we kid ourselves others see.  

Things like Bob’s beloved processed cheese, which looks like pureed slug as it emerges from the squeezy tube. Things like easy- spread butter, family packs of Jaffa Cakes and my jelly bean addiction.

Oh the shame, but I’ve been a lifelong jelly bean fan (the cheap ones, not your overpriced gourmet flavours). I crave the simple hit of sugar and additives, which admittedly don’t really taste of anything at all.

I have one packet of ASDA jelly beans left and if I finish it, the world might end.

Then there’s chocolate.

I think I’ve eaten chocolate every day of my adult life so I found myself scanning Amazon like a crazed addict on Monday, determined to find a Twirl, some Giant Buttons or the Nirvana of a Flake. Not surprisingly however, no-one sells online the mundane things we could pick up on every checkout (and yes, I DID pick them up from every checkout) in the good old days.

But I’m no quitter. After about ninety minutes of anguished scanning “temporarily unavailable” options, I managed to secure 2 Easter eggs, a family pack of Kitkats and some Jazzies (there was more but some things even I won’t share).

I triumphantly pressed confirm and it said ……

Delivery May 12th.   

MAY THE BLOODY TWELFTH? I’ll be a whole year older by then. As well as gaunt,  miserable and impossible to live.

So, like a demented squirrel determined to find its nuts. (The simple addition of an apostrophe there might give an even better mental picture), I dived back into t’internet.

Hallelujah!

The Harrods of the North, House of Bruar, is still selling an array of exorbitantly priced truffles, hand-rolled by lithe Jacobites in midge-infested glens.

They have fudge, which I know to be good. I’ve never stooped so low as to purchase it by mail order but it has always jumped enthusiastically into my genuine wicker, self-indulgent Yuppie shopping basket on the way to visit rellies in Wester Ross.

And since this is confession time, no, it was never a present. I ate it all myself, my Precioussss.

Anyway, there am I buying chocolate and cake at huge expense, when they slap a ￡7.95 delivery charge on it. Any sane person would have left at that point.

I pressed CONFIRM.

House of Bruar, I love you x  

#obscene #toldyouitwasshameful