Late Saturday morning and I’m in my pyjamas, nursing a light hangover. I fell for crumpets in a big way the other week, as I do every year when the weather gets chilly. I pop a couple in the toaster and go to the fridge, when – disaster strikes. A flashback of me scraping the last ounce of butter from its paper the night before. And now, there is nothing to spread on my breakfast treat, and I am bereft.
I toy with my options. I could put on the outfit I reserve specially for a quick dash to the corner shop: white baggy branded jogging bottoms, an enormous bright red hoodie and my battered trainers (I fancy that they think I’ve been jogging – ha! – and am popping into the shop on the way back…) But I still have the imprint of where my pillow squished into my face, so there’s no way I can pull that off today. I could try crumpets ‘with a twist’? I cast my eye around for any fat I have to hand. Olive oil? No. Vegetable oil? An involuntary shudder. I can’t do it to the crumpet, let alone my taste buds. What about un crumpet au nature, naked of butter, but doused in honey? Unacceptable.
What to do? The clock is ticking. The edges of the crumpets are starting to curl and crisp in the toaster, indicating that they’re ready to invite lashings of melted butter into their bottomless wells. This really is going to ruin my morning. I need to act quickly.