Those of you who follow my regular meanderings will already know that I have a distinct partiality for dairy products.
Just recently I enjoyed the company of a friend from Ireland by the name of Padraig Costello. Now, Padraig is a talented artist, but more importantly, he likes custard. His visit was considered such a happy occasion that he was offered a pudding after dinner, with custard poured over it. And, because there was some custard left over, I was given a little drop in a saucer.
Wow! Custard is delicious – it’s like nectar for the gods. I never want to eat anything else. Forget the Gourmet pouches and the dried Whiskas. Padraig wasn’t offered those, was he? You see my point.
Now, every time a saucepan appears out of the cupboard and is placed on the hob, I am on tiptoes in anticipation. Eyes wide, tail at full mast, my face innocent and appealing. But sadly, since Padraig went back to Ireland, no custard has been forthcoming.
I’ve turned my nose up at every flavour of cat food, which means that it is eventually put outside for the hedgehogs. My friend, Einstein, considers himself to be a hedgehog and is getting very fat. Not for him the sweet, heavenly taste of custard.
I’m holding out until I get some more… but Padraig says he won’t be back until next year, and I can’t wait that long. Would anyone else like to come and stay?
Footnote: I’d like to reassure any worried readers that Purdey enjoys a very healthy diet, and her intake of custard has now fallen to zero – despite her aspirations!
