Standing in front of a wall of booze and cigarettes, the shopkeeper points at my flapjack.
“Careful, my friend,” he laughs, “it looks like you’re getting an addiction.”
It’s true. The secret morning flapjack on the way back from school really is my guilty vice.
Though you won’t find a single wise sage reciting a couplet about this wicked bake. Maybe I should compose my own.
Even if ye oats are from Fife, young lad, do nee succumb to that golden bar! Only dereliction lies herein.
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Last modified: 6 October 2024
