Kendal has exhausted its supply of cream. Morrisons, Booths, Iceland, and several smaller shops are all out: not a drop of single, nor a blob of double, nor a dollop of extra thick double to be found.
Foodies are staring into the abyss. An elderly man scrapes a dry piece of Christmas pudding around a lonely bowl, the dough moistened only by his tears. Children ask for pudding, too young to understand the terror engulfing our town. Mothers can only bite down on their ring fingers, pensively looking out onto the frosty morning.
I have moved to Leeds, and I am currently emptying what cream I can find into a bath tub.
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