Yorkie
I didn’t mean to eat the Yorkie. I’d had it on display for months, and was proud of the fact it was not destined to be eaten.
I felt like a terrible cliche for eating the Yorkie on a rainy night, alone and miserable. All I needed was giant fluffy slippers and some chick lit and I’d be a perfect mid twenties female stereotype. Thankfully, almost everything else except the fondness for sweets excludes me from this category. Phew!
The Yorkie presents mixed messages. The pink wrapper, the construction site tape reading "Girls Can you Handle it?", the toilet door lady holding a handbag, the challenge:
OK OK girls you claim you can handle our chunky chocolate! Here is your opportunity, but to be honest we don’t think you can!
How stupid. I managed to polish off the Yorkie quite successfully.
The most shameful thing about my eating of the Yorkie is that it’s best before date was five months before I actually consumed it. I was counting on the difference between "best before" and "use by". Well, I thought, it’s just not at its best, but it is still edible. It had those weird white marks that old chocolate gets, but it tasted fine, if a little hard. It reminded me of slate, I could sheer off sheets of it with my teeth.
My addiction to sweets has been much more violent since I gave up drinking coffee. I find that I am the most unhealthy person in my classes at university. At breaks other people take out Tupperware containers of yoghurt and muesli, or tuna and salad, others unpeel bananas, or nibble at health bars. Not me. I have been buying chocolate: Golden Roughs, chocolate frogs, chocolate covered liquorice. During class I fantasise about the candy selection at the Union Newsagency.
Since the Yorkie is a "very limited edition", I am curious whether it still exists, or whether Britain has any other lines of man-chocolate. I will set my representative in England onto the case.