Notes from the Potting Shed

My dear confections of the cosmos,

You’ll forgive the hurried nature of this missive, for I am presently experiencing what can only be described as a deepening sugar-based fugue state, brought on by a benevolent act of village confectionery largesse and my own near-uncontrollable fondness for anything squidgy and caramelly.

This afternoon, I set out for a brief constitutional (and I do mean constitutional, not a sneaky half of Old Crone’s Elbow at the Dog & Fax, thank you very much, Keith). I was simply doing a light perambulation around the duck pond, checking in on the swan that looks like the Bishop of East Dabbleford, when I was accosted—nay, presented to—by no less a figure than Mrs Trubshaw, proprietress of Ye Olde Sweete Shoppe and minor local deity of the sugar arts.

She burst from her doorway in a sort of flurry of apron and molasses, bearing a silver tray like a herald of Olympus, crying out, “’Tis National Fudge Day, Virgil! Take! Take freely!” And take I did.

What joy. What abundance. What divine stickiness. I helped myself to no fewer than six generous pieces for the journey home and a further eleven “for later” (pocketed discreetly, although I now fear my cardigan will forever bear a faint whiff of lavender and Rum & Raisin).

There was Traditional Treacle, Clotted Cream Chaos, Banana Rumble, Ginger Swirl, Walnut Doom, something suspiciously purple called “Moonfluff”, and one that tasted like burnt toast and childhood grief, which I adored.

I am now back at the kitchen table, surrounded by crumbs, wrappers, a slowly hardening cup of tea, and the distinct sensation that my eyebrows are gently vibrating. I do not expect to remain conscious for much longer, but I felt it my solemn duty to report this miraculous occurrence to you, in case you too wish to partake before the day dissolves into memory and toothache.

If I do not wake until tomorrow, do please tell Mrs Trubshaw I went happily, mid-sentence, face-down in a wedge of Marbled Hazelnut Oblivion.

Yours, reverently fudge-faced,
Virgil Twobyfour
(Writer, Shwami, and amateur taster of things that definitely weren’t meant to be eaten that fast)

P.S. A tip: the Toffee Brickle Crunch makes an excellent emergency doorstop or rudimentary self-defence weapon.