I’m unsure if any of you plumbed the same levels of despair as I, when brutally confronted with the infamous ˜non delivery of the chocolate‘. If you did, then please cancel the therapy session, this one had a happy ending.
Awaiting me at the office, occupying pride of place on my desk, was a chocolate of gargantuan proportions hand delivered by a guilty Sarah of my working parish. It’s worth stating for the record that Sarah is really terribly nice whilst most of the dysfunctional family who work here faced with a similar dilemma, would have nonchalantly deposited a steaming donkey turd on my chair. Or set fire to my desk depending on their proximity to matches.
Sorry, were you starting your breakfast? I’ll try and devise some kind of warning sign in the future.
I’d like to say that this “ and I don’t think this is any way an exaggeration “ historic chocolate has been hermetically sealed in a glass display box with a small hand written note of providence added to create the impression of a shrine. Visitors could marvel at both the size of the chocolate and the heart warming story behind it.
I’d like to say that. But it’s just not the case; in a moment of ˜h’mm feeling a bit peckish’ I ate it. Lovely it was too, with a hard chocolately coating briefly protecting a slightly softer but still satisfyingly calorific chocolate inner core. Not a praline in sight.
This should not be thought to, in any way, diminish the act of selflessness on Sarah’s part. I like to think I’ve internalised the issue.