Biscuits. They are a problem, don’t you think?
Today was the second meeting of our Nomination Whist Group.
We meet fortnightly at our house for a couple of hours. This is good, because it means I am encouraged to clean the house, sweep the floors, plump the cushions and polish the dining room table so that our house will present a shiny face to our visitors.
It is also good because Ken the Gardener comes every Wednesday morning to mow our lawns and dig our flower beds - so that our garden looks just splendid and everyone congratulates us on our green fingers.
On the negative side, there are the biscuits.
It is more or less mandatory that biscuits are provided at group meetings. Yesterday
Mr B went shopping at Tescos (his supermarket of choice) and arrived home with (i) custard creams and (ii) shortbread fingers to add to the Hobnobs already residing in our biscuit tin. There was no way, I told him, that seven people would eat their way through
all those biscuits. Which meant that we would be left with rather a lot of delicious biscuits to tempt us in the days ahead.
My Boy (who always has a great selection
of biscuits in his house) has been known to berate me for the fact that his childhood was, relatively speaking, biscuit-less. I know just what he means but, to be honest, no packet of biscuits would have lasted five minutes in our house when he and his
sisters (aka the Darling Daughters) were small. Biscuits were, therefore, a rarity. I rather fear that my Foursome had a Deprived Childhood. Hopefully that never occurred to them at the time.
When I was small, one of my favourite errands was a trip to the shop which sold the broken biscuits. I imagine they also sold unbroken biscuits but it wouldn’t have crossed my mind to ask for them. Plus, there
was something really, really special about broken biscuits. It was the feeling of hope and expectation against all the odds. The crossed fingers. The closing of the eyes as the biscuits were shovelled into the brown paper bag so as not to tempt fate.
Not peeking into the bag as you bore it home. The triumph when the selection was revealed to include a couple of bits of bourbon biscuit and half a custard cream. The wishing that it might be my turn for the half a custard cream. And the pretending to be happy
instead with the half a Rich Tea, arguably the Most Boring Biscuit in the World.
I think I have done well in my first two weeks as a Convenor of the Nomination
Whist Group. I have compiled a list telling me what everyone likes for their mid-session refreshment break. Coffee with milk – check. Tea with a little bit of milk and a spoonful of sugar – check. Plain boiled water – are you really sure
I have drawn up a register so that I can tick everyone off each time they attend. I have bought myself a storage box from WH Smith in which I can keep playing cards, score sheets, napkins,
name badges. There was a lot of laughter around the table. Two good, competitive games. One and all, we enjoyed ourselves.
The only problem is those darn biscuits.
How will Mr B and I stop ourselves scoffing them between now and our next session?
As someone much cleverer than I once memorably said, I can resist everything