Cadbury Crème Egg
Oh dear, sweet, accessible Cadbury Crème Egg. My fillings ache just by glancing over at you, glistening in your primary-coloured foil, stacked in a fetching pile near the check out.
Easter may have just ended, but you manage to linger on. Why is it that you, of all the commercial holiday refuse, remain at full price and all of the other pretenders to your throne (Red tulip, Cadburys, Heritage, even Lindt) are now thrown into a cardboard box emblazoned ‘50% Off'. They're not fit to be seen next to you. All are disfigured - crudely broken, holes picked into their sides from sticky little fingers, smashed into fragments or their boxes dented unbecomingly.
I may have spent the four days of Easter long weekend dreaming of you, but you were never made a reality. No-one gave me any of you - I would have smelt and sensed you long before you were plonked out on the kitchen table for Sunday morning anyhow. Don’t fret, little egg: I made do with many mournful mouthfuls of rabbit ears, dark squares, M&Ms and anything that my daughter Sapphire wished to share. Of course it wasn't enough: it wasn't what I really craved. That, dear Creme Egg, was you.
And so, two weeks later at the supermarket I now find my hands excitedly fumbling for my wallet; coins spinning on to the moving checkout belt. My surrender is now complete. The family groceries are paid by credit card but the pack of six Cadbury Creme Eggs are paid in cash, like a guilty secret, and shoved into my backpack before anyone else can see. Like a true addict, I fidgeted nervously and looked around for a secluded spot to eat one. Not out in the sunlight where it would be too public and possibly offensive for people to see, but in the shade, at the side of a building or beside a........ the alleyway by the cinema! My feet were yearning to run like the wind instead of badly act out the casual saunter my brain was imposing upon them. It wouldn't do to have someone else guess my purpose; I was never ever going to share.
A quick glance around revealed no other passersby, just bird crap-spattered cars, takeaway containers and cigarette butts. My shaking hands ripped off the foil as I eagerly hunched over the egg, shielding it from view. My eyes closed as my two front teeth bit hard into the thick chocolate. The egg white fondant poured out of the top and ran becomingly down the sides of my mouth, but I was already far away from my grimy spot on earth to care. Another big bite saw the fondant turn into a yolky yellow as I greedily gulped it down and chewed the chunks of chocolate at a more leisurely pace. Blood was now pumping warm in my veins and successfully insulating me from the wind and cold of the dull day. After only three precious mouthfuls, I had reached the last morsel - the bottom of the shell. No fondant, just a thick layer of Cadbury dairy milk chocolate. A cruel consolation because it left me wanting more.....
No thoughts at all for other people, my reputation or for finally making my sad little addiction general knowledge I continued in my quest for fleeting pleasure. The wrapping was ripped off in hurried, impatient movements as I crammed the top of the second egg between my teeth, not about to waste one more precious second before consummating the consumption. The foil remnants caused my fillings to buzz in dismay, but who cared - I threw the second half of the egg almost casually into my far-too-willing mouth. It was sheer heaven to lean up against the wall and chew the chocolate chunks and fondant into a dreamily delightful mouth mess....
As my eyes slowly opened, they revealed Debra, a research assistant on the floor below, shopping bags in her hands, gaping at me in disgust. "Ummf, ummf, chomp chomp, Hi there Deb," I called out, wiping the melted chocolate and fondant drool from my face with the back of my hand. Her answer was indecipherable as she spun on her heel and clip-clopped away from me as fast as her stumpy little pins could carry her.
I too made my way back to work, but with nowhere near her frenetic pace. It is disgust and not delight, that makes you do that. Instead, I was reliving my two brief-but-beautiful encounters with you, dear Cadbury Creme Egg, and feeling satiated. For now. There were still four of your comrades left, burning a hole at the bottom of my bag. My mental jury was out as to whether they'd survive the journey through the carpark, across the lawns, under the bridge and up the stairs..... Damn you, you ninety-nine cent oval object of evil !