Don’t Work Your Arse Off For A Custard Tart
I had worked my butt off, winning a Franklins colouring in competition as a kid. The prize was a custard pie, that fell flat on it’s face in the kitchen upon it’s arrival at home. It was regarded as a forbidden kind of food, mainly due to the unknown nature of it’s ingredients, so the prize was turned into a petty nuisance of a great deal of bother to clean up. A small portion was rescued in an attempt to sooth the wobering of my lower lip. It was my first experience of tasting custard and i remember celebrating each spoonful. I was feeling quite miserable about it, but enjoyed the taste of the measely portion that was rescued.
There was something poignant about seeing them packaged into miniature tarts at the supermarket the other day. I never buy these things, but they called out to me today for the sake of remembering that moment.
Like, I worked my arse off for a stupid fucking tart…
