Sweet

Watching Nigel Slater's paean to confectionery on BBC4 last night made me consider my own relationship with the sweet stuff over the years.

It started with the tuppence (yes, it was that long ago) that my parents gave me before my trip to school every weeday. The girl who lived on the corner (whose name I have forgotten, to my eternal shame) accompanied my brother and me on the 15 minute walk, allowing us to drop into the sweet shop that had been thoughtfully placed en route for our convenience. Inside we were met by the dilemma that Slater describes so vividly in his programme: how best to divide our meagre resources between the cornucopia of sugary delights on display. Blackjacks and Fruit Salads were always a good bet: at the time one penny would get you eight of these chewy treats. That left another penny to be split between my own personal favourites, Flying Saucers; Cola Bottles; Rhubarb and Custards; or those chewy snakes that must have a proper name but I don't remember it. Whether to go for sheer number of items or invest the whole amount in Sherbet Fountains, liquorice laces, sweet cigarettes or any of a plethora of lesser (in my child-like view) products was a daily poser. That is without even considering the array of bottle-vended items such as sherbet lemons and Everton Mints. I always tended to see these as adult sweets, to be handed out by parents, uncles or aunts on long car or train journeys, so generally avoided these.

Eventually the lure of the chocolate bar proved too strong and the earliest manifestation of the difference in mindset between my brother and me also began to appear. Although not strictly a bar, that first packet of Rolos began a lifelong relationship, and sometimes battle, with the sensuous siren call of the cocoa-based oblong (or flattened sphere in the case of the Rolo). My brother and I differed dramatically in our methods of eating them: he would chew one slowly and thoughtfully as if the very meaning of human existence was contained within the toffee-covered chocolate; only the  rhythmical motion of his jaw could release it. Whereas, I would shove each one in to my mouth in a steady and unrelenting stream, barely pausing for breath, not taking the time to appreciate the way that the small rim of chocolate collapsed like the defences of a medieval castle on being bitten into, allowing the invading molar army access to the now vulnerable soft toffee interior. Then of course I would try to inveigle extra portions from him, claiming in our younger days that as I was older my need for nourishment was greater than his. In later years, this line of reasoning gave way to an oscillation between attempted physical intimidation and what would somehow turn into an argument between his vision of a Liberal (in the David Steel sense) utopia and my distorted version of Marxian theory that ignored the fact that the only reason that his possessions were the only ones available for redistribution was my own profligacy. Picture David's face when Ed was elected leader for an idea of the intensity of the conflict.

Inevitably, other bars followed the Rolo; Mars, Milky Bar, Twix, Kit Kat; plus the now defunct Amazin, Aztec, Nutty and Texan. In Sixth Form, I developed an attachment to the Drifter. This was in effect a wafer-based version of the Twix and went down beautifully with a Coca Cola (not Pepsi). Given my exam grades I can't claim it was a great study aid but it had a satisfying heft (apologies to Martin Amis) and a high chewyness coefficient which meant it lasted longer than most bars.

Since attaining adulthood, my relationship with sweets, in particular with chocolate has grown more complex and, on occasion, fraught. From the days of my first job where my diet plan involved restricting lunch to an unaccompanied Mars bar, to the present where chocolate is a rare luxury to be enjoyed as an after dinner accompaniment to a hot drink. Even then, it is not the solid, proletarian, working bar of old that passes my lips. Rather, it is Green and Black's, Montezumas or Hotel Chocolat; satisfying in its own way, but representing the difference between a good belly laugh and an appreciative chuckle at a piece of dry wit. In between, there have been struggles with guilt; an act of infidelity perpetrated on my own health, sacrificing a long-term relationship for the sake of a few stolen moments of sensory ecstasy. People speak of comfort-eating and I can testify to its existence. Evidence lies in the reduction that my girth has undergone since the ending of my first marriage.

However, as in so many other areas of life, my relationship with chocolate is now better than ever. We've even started talking about seeing each other again on a regular basis: a small amount of 70% cocoa chocolate is reputed to help reduce blood pressure. Well, I'll give it a go.