06.15
Last night I had to run out and grab some milk as we were running low. I asked Nete if there was anything else she wanted/needed before heading out, “chocolate!”, came the reply. Nete never craves chocolate, or eats very much so this had to be important. I racked my mind to try to remember what was a favourite of hers before it dawned…
Cadbury’s Cream Eggs! Now, I know it’s nearly summer ‘n all, and chocolate eggs are normally Easter-centric but seeing how Kinder Eggs are around all year I thought that the good old cream egg might be too. But no. It wasn’t anywhere – at least not in the two all night petrol stations and single remaining open newsagent I tried. Worse than this however, much worse that this in fact, is that in all three of these establishments, when I asked if they had any I may have missed I was met with blank looks and puzzled questions like, ‘strawberry glued legs?’, and ‘very clean what?’
Why is this so bad you (non-England residents) might ask? Well, the Cadbury Cream Egg is a bloody institution that regularly divides the closest of friends because you either love them or hate them. More than this, everyone who does like them has their own way of eating one. It’s a very personal thing and not to be mocked or disparaged in any way… It’s a British great. A thing to be anticipated and savoured. Something bright to look forward to after the dull grey months that make up the British winter.
To hate them can be understood. To eat one in the most disgusting manner can be overlooked, but to not know what one is is simply unforgivable and, for me, the British Isles are a sadder place this morning. Garage assistants and shop assistants everywhere should be ashamed…
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