Oh Quality Street …. how do I love thee? Let me count the ways.

It’s that time of year again.  Christmas tree lights, glitter, walnuts and clementines – these are a few of my favourite things.  Now obviously, I like/love chocolate.  Who doesn’t?  Especially at this indulgent ‘who gives a shit about the diet’ time of year.  Oh, and toffee.  And nuts.  And caramel … and and and …  If I knew who the genius was that put all of these things together in one beautifully embellished, shiny tin, I’d shake them by the hand. 

Quality Street holds a special place in my heart.  They’re not something I crave any other time of the year but approaching Christmas, I’m first in the queue at Tesco’s.

Growing up as a child, a tin of Quality Street was deemed a luxury.  An annual treat of decadence.  A one tin only, once a year treat.  As children, there were rules we had to follow.  Mum would buy the tin several months before Christmas and hide it away in her mirrored sliderobes with the strict instruction that, “we were not to go looking for the tin.  I mean it.”  This was like a red rag to two bullish children and we would then make it our mission to find it.

She never hid it well.  I think it was part of the cat and mouse game she pretended to play.  My brother, being five years old, was the instigator and I apportion all blame on him for what would happen next (although at the time I was happy to partake.)  It was only a matter of time until we found the sweets and we would then take delicious pleasure in slowly and carefully removing the sellotape around the lid just enough so that we could get our grubby little fingers inside and then proceed to remove all the orange creams.  We wouldn’t touch any other sweet, just them, and then we would seal the tin back up to avoid suspicion and share the sweets out.  I doubt they were shared equally but at 7 years old I’d take what I could get.

A week before Christmas, Mum would then get the tin out from her not-so-brilliant hiding place only to find all the orange creams gone.  This was considered sacrilege as they were everyone’s favourite – must have been genetic.  She’d pretend to be angry, we’d pretend to be sorry (all the while our sorrowful faces being smothered in delicious orangeyness) and we would always end up doing the same thing the following year.

Nowadays, you can buy a tin for a fiver but, just like Mum, I attempt to hide it, knowing it’ll be found and eaten before I’ve had a look in.  My kids aren’t as discriminating as I was as a child – chocolate’s chocolate to them, and they eat them all, but little do they know … I took all the orange creams out already and they’re residing in a top secret location as we speak!

Well, they were there the last time I looked.

Everyone has their favourite Quality Street but I’ve been shocked quite frankly to find out that some people don’t like the orange creams!  I find this UNBEFRICKINLIEVABLE!

So, have a heart this Christmas … if you don’t like them, don’t leave them all on their own.  I’d be happy to give them a home!

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Published by Kate Sutton

Writer, Mother, Dater.