I dragged myself home today after work, schlepped a cello, an A-minus diorama, and a damp bag full of swimming stuff into the kitchen . . . and saw a package on the kitchen table. For me.
The moment I saw the Royal Mail sticker, I knew. One might say I went completely kookoopants:
HobNobs, for those of you who haven’t experienced them yet, are insanely good English biscuits that aren’t available in my neck of the woods, unless I want to take a verrrry long drive to the nearest import grocery. I’m mentioned this once or twice—or perhaps at every possible opportunity—and Her Grace Downith sent me some completely out of the blue, accompanied by an absolutely perfect poem by John Betjeman:
She, such a very ordinary little woman;
He, such a thumping crook;
But both, for a moment, little lower than the angels
In the teashop’s ingle-nook.
The HobNobs are exactly as good as I remember—sweet and slightly nutty and crumbly and milk-chocolately and ummm . . .
But receiving a surprise from a friend is even better.