Mummy crack

There's a bag of the sweets that dare not speak their name on the top shelf in the cupboard. I bought them to decorate my son's birthday cake, so it's not my fault.

Actually, I lied. The empty bag is now in the bin, strategically positioned under melon detritus to avoid the cry of 'Daddy! Mummy ate all my sweets! Again.'

There is something pharmaceutical in those sweets. The evil people who run the food industry know what I am talking about.

I hadn't actually tried them since I was conned into buying them as a teenager, thanks to a cheesy ad that tapped into adolescent insecurities by showing popular kids in sports cars flinging them up in the air and into each other's mouths. Very 80s.

But I dismissed them as inferior American smarties, so maybe the crack-like substance they now contain hadn't been discovered at that point.

To return to the present: 'Mummy, Mummy! I want the sweets with the ems on their tummies.'

I will never buy another bag of the em sweets again. Or mummy will wake up one morning with an em on her tummy.