I never get around to the Welshcake part of my last post. I have, unfortunately developed an addictive fetish for Welshcakes. There's a stall in the market that sells them for 20p each, or seven for a quid. I can't walk past that stall, without going into some kind of Welshcake-induced trance. It's like some Welshcake-guzzling fiend takes over my mind and body. I find my stumpy little legs waddling over to the stall, whereby a quid mysteriously appears in my hand, to be replaced, moments later, by a big bag of golden, juicy-looking Welshcakes.
I went into the market today, promising myself that all Welshcakes could go to hell. So what happened when I walked past the evil temptation of the Welshcake stall? Yep, I went into the familiar trance and found myself exchanging a quid for a bag of Welshcakes. I wish the women who ran the stall were horrid. I hate horrid shopkeepers and stall-holders, and I won't buy off rude, nasty people. But everyone who has ever served me at that stall, has had impeccable manners and a lovely, welcoming smile on their face. Be mean to me, please, oh Welshcake ladies, so I can break my addiction.
No comments:
Post a Comment