I was trying to explain a childhood favourite to Aimée, and I think I’ve made her Allergic.
I had just watched Aimée eat a handful of goji berries as if they were salted peanuts in a bar.
And it got me thinking: there are twelve years between us. When I was a kid, a viennetta was the height of decadence.
She may have grown up knowing what pesto is, what quinoa is for, she probably ate an olive.
My Christmases were spent eating cheesy footballs, twiglets, dry roasted peanuts, dandelion and burdock and dates, presumably to push it all through.
I told her this and went on to explain, in some detail, what cheesy footballs were. Only available at Christmas, it seemed.
A cheesy football was one of the finest things in nature. A crisp wafer shell surrounding a salted centre of, what I tend to think of as, cheese product.
They weren’t very nice in the eighties, but they have improved exponentially. I could still finish off a tub of them by Christmas Eve, even in the eighties.
I dare you: put me in a room with them now.
I won’t leave until I can no longer fit through the door.