Pear Shaped

‘Have you spoken to your brother?’ she says.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘You’re not going to believe what that lunatic girlfriend of his is up to …’

‘Go on …’

‘She’s booked a Caesarean for the third week in August.’

‘Isn’t the baby due at the start of September?’ I say.

‘Exactly!’

‘So how does …’

‘She’s having it two weeks early so that it’s the same star sign as her!’ No amount of italics can convey the utter disdain in my mother’s voice.

‘Jesus, what is wrong with her?’ I say. ‘Is that even safe?’

‘Apparently. Sheer lunacy. And your bloody brother’s saying he can’t see what all the fuss is about. I said to him …’

‘Mum, my Yorkshire puddings have just pinged … I can’t talk …’

‘I haven’t even told you what dreadful names they’re thinking of calling my first grandchild …’

‘It’ll have to wait.’

I hang up and explain Shellii to James.

‘All women are mad,’ he says, again. This time I can’t really disagree.

After dinner, James asks what’s for pudding.

‘An experiment,’ I say. ‘Step into my office.’

He follows me to the fridge. Inside are two large pots of custard sent by Will at Appletree, as Phase 1 of the new custard project Devron’s briefed me on.

‘Take your tie off and sit down….’ I wrap it round his eyes in a blindfold and he screams ‘Help!’

‘Just be quiet and focus on your mouth,’ I say.

‘Can’t we focus a bit lower down?’

‘Mouth first.’ I take the custards out and put a spoon in each. ‘First one – what does this taste of?’ I say.

‘Custard. I could do your job, Soph!’

‘Ha, funny. What else?’

‘Vanilla?’

‘And?’

‘Something with alcohol?’

‘Good. Bourbon! Now have a sip of water.’ I carefully pass over a glass, and he deliberately misses his mouth and pours half of it down his shirt, and then takes it off and drops it on the floor.

‘Would sir like a bib?’ I say.

‘Can’t we do this naked?’

‘Health and Safety 101! Ok, second custard – what does this one taste of?’

‘Custard,’ he says.

‘Very clever. What else?’

‘Maple syrup?’

‘Bingo. And does it make you want to eat anything else?’

‘You!’ he says.

‘Engage your brain.’

‘… maybe something crunchy?’

‘Ten out of ten! Your brain’s making a connection between the maple syrup and granola. So I might take this custard and create a dessert that has a layer of almond granola, then the custard, and then something lighter on top, three different textures. With this flavour profile I’d want something less sweet, that complements the custard …’

‘How about my cock?’

‘Great idea! Not sure it can feed 40,000 Fletchers shoppers each week …’

‘We’ll start with just the one, shall we?’ he says, taking his blindfold off, unzipping his fly and taking his pants down.

‘James, do not put your penis in my custard samples. I have to feed those to Devron on Monday. James! Stop it!’

‘You told me you don’t like Devron anyway,’ he says.

‘True, but I do like this custard!’

Too late.

My boyfriend is a custard-covered dick, and I adore him.

‘Devron, I’m sorry but the custard samples aren’t ready for tasting,’ I say on Monday morning.

‘Fine, what are you doing on May 3rd?’