I really want to be amusing and able to tell a good story. The truth is rather different, but I have this urge to force my sad pudding tale on you, regardless. Don’t worry, I’ll make it up to you. Later.
The twenty-something witch and Mother-of-witch and Favourite Aunt had decided to spend Christmas in London. Or rather, the witch had, and the other two had to trail after her. We crossed on the ferry from Gothenburg, which still sailed in those days. We splashed out on the proper dinner with waiter service as it was Christmas. Waiter service. Hah. He was as drunk as a skunk.
I forget what we ordered for dessert, but we all had the same. Tried to have the same. The other two were in receipt of their puddings. Our lovely waiter had three more on his tray, and two of them were safely delivered to the diners at a nearby table. Then he stopped and looked in bewildered fashion at the remaining bowl. He pondered it briefly before depositing the offending pud on a small table behind a column, which was presumably holding up the dining room ceiling.
I steamed – not very nicely at all – and nearly exploded before managing to explain to him that it was not unwanted. It was wanted by me.
My bad pudding karma followed me to London. We were allotted our own waitress at the hotel, and ours must have been re-called from a long retirement to help them out over the festive period. She was ours for breakfast and dinner. Every day. One night my eye was caught by the Baked Alaska on the menu. My foreign-ness meant I wasn’t totally sure what it was, but strongly suspected it was a close relative of the ancient Swedish delicacy we call Glace au Four.
I asked our faithful waitress (she really seemed to be very fond of us) for a confirmation of this. She peered at the menu and thought about it before whispering conspiratorially that I would probably be better off having something else (i.e. she didn’t have a clue). Well, you know me. We ordered the Baked Alaska/Glace au Four. I had been right. It was ‘Glace au Four.’ At least it didn’t go missing en route. Towards the end of the holiday I had grown quite fond of our waitress. She meant well. And I do like it when people like me. It’s a rare thing.
And now for your reward. Here is Nicola Morgan’s tale about when her brain tried to leave Belfast. Nicola knows how to be amusing.