Tag: <span>Chelsea Whoppers</span>

A big empty white space.

That’s it. All I’ve got. As far as I can get. So many things are flittering about in my head but I can’t grasp one long enough to form a coherent thought around it (or even OF it…).

Blunkett’s latest immigration laws. The Pelamis energy convertor ‘wave power machine’. The sickening pictures of George W smooozing his way onto stage as he launches his campaign for re-election (although the fact that he is starting it early is a good sign… running scared I hope). Obscene profits by the Royal Bank of Scotland.

Then there’s real life. A friend going through a hard time. A general malaise descending on everything. Professional stagnancy. Waiting on payday on Friday. Heating knackered again. Car needing a service.

And I think I’m coming down with something, which is probably why even typing this much has left me drained.

Of course it’s only now that I realise I shouldn’t have scoffed the last of the Chelsea Whoppers last night. Dammit.

Ohh and I’ll expect you all to have tried that Crimson Room puzzle (linked in the Miniblog on the right) by tomorrow.

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Well I thought I’d do a little research into this. Starting with Brian’s suggestion of “A quarter of..” I got no further. It was all I could do to stop myself ordering half the site!!!

And Texan’s… wow. Yum.

Ohh and to answer two questions:
1. Yes I’m supposed to be on a diet (‘Supposed’ being the operative word).
2. Chelsea Whoppers are a sort of chocolatey fudge bar coated in cocoa powder. They look like this:

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I mentioned Biggar last week, but I neglected to mention the little olde fashioned shop selling all the sweets from our childhood. Flying saucers! Cinder candy! We spent the best part of 10 minutes oohhh-ing and ahhhh-ing over the display. Cherry Lips! ABC Letters! What fun we had, and from the expression on the shop owner’s face we weren’t the first people to react that way and I got the feeling that half the fun of the shop was taken from watching people’s reactions.

Then a long distance memory dredged itself up from the deepest, darkest recesses of my brain, I turned to the shop keeper and asked: “Do you sell Chelsea Whoppers?”

Alas, she didn’t. The mood was soured slightly, we made a few purchases and left.

This morning the doorbell rang. A parcel was delivered.

Ain’t my wife just the best!

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