I made a rice pudding last night. It would have been a lovely winter warming pudding but alas, as I took it from the oven to the counter I tripped slightly on the hem of my trousers and the jolt was enough to cause the contents of the dish to gloop forward and out of the bowl. All over the floor. The dogs were delighted of course. While I had a flashback to the time I fainted on the school bus. We’d all made rice pudding in cookery class and stored them carefully in those baskets (ladies of a certain will remember these) and dashed for the bus. As always, it was jam packed full so we stood on the open platform at the bottom of the steps, dodging the paper pellets being thrown by the boys from upstairs.
Next thing I know I’m being gently moved to an upright position and a sea of faces is peering down, apparently trying to clock a glimpse down the front of my school shirt.
And there’s a river of rice pudding the length of the bus.
I never liked nutmeg anyway.
Is this is a(nother) sign of rapidly approaching old age, that I can remember things that happened 28 years ago more clearly than what I had for breakfast yesterday? Oh Lord…