Seven weeks ago, I made a catastrophic error of judgment.
I think that it is a mark of these more self-aware days that we are fortunate to live in, that someone like me is able to emote freely about things that go wrong with their lives, just as much as they can boast of the rare triumphs.
I’ve done some stupid stuff over the years, I’ll admit; gone to places I shouldn’t have been in, and said and done things that caused hurt and inconvenience. Whichever religion turns out to have been telling us the truth is going to have to have forgiveness in its repertoire if I am eventually to wriggle through their version of the pearly gates, come the day.
When it became apparent back in mid-March that we were going to face some kind of lock-down, I made three unconnected pledges to myself. The first was that I would bake a loaf, which I did; the second was that I would learn on-line banking, which I have. After all, I am middle-aged, these are stressful times, and one must proceed with caution.
None of which justifies my third pledge, which is that I would not buy a packet of Jaffa Cakes until I had been released from my metaphorical cave. I must be stark, staring mad.
Ever since July 1927, when both my father and the first Jaffa Cake rolled off their respective production lines, McVities have been making the world a substantially better place out of their Stockport factory.
The concept is so damn simple (a layer of genoise sponge, under a layer of orange jam under a layer of chocolate) that even Mr. Trump couldn’t mess it up. From time to time they go through the motions of new product development- (who can forget the ghastly experiment with strawberry, and this year’s regretful pineapple filling?)- before once again quickly accepting that the original is peerless. Untouchable; unimpeachable; changeless; perfect.
I already loved them when I was eight, as I well remember entering a national competition to come up with their next slogan. The one that eventually won (‘the chocolate cake with a smashing orangey bit’), which was so close to mine that it must have been stolen, won the little sod who came up with it a lifetime’s supply of the things.
And do you remember when we all held our breaths in 1991 when McVities took on the might of HMRC in court to assert their legal right to call them cakes (which didn’t attract VAT), as opposed to biscuits (which did)? And how we cheered to the echo when they won?
These days, you can have them in packets, single packs, double packs, grab bags, mini-bags and at Christmas, praise the Lord, yards. Forty of them roll off that line each second, meaning about 125 million of them each year, which is not nearly enough. In my dreams, I would like to sit at belt level at the very end with my mouth open until I could no longer walk.
And still I avoid them. On good days, I can just about manage; on bad ones, I could, and probably do, weep. Stopping smoking after 25 years was a piece of cake, if you excuse the horribly unsuitable metaphor.
So far, in seven weeks of abstinence, I have lost 500 grams of weight from my body.
I must be mad.
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