It all started with a craving.

Not a life-changing craving. Not the sort that sends people climbing mountains or booking flights to distant lands.

No.

This was infinitely more dangerous.

I wanted a custard cream to dunk in my coffee.

A custard cream dunked in hot coffee is one of life’s small luxuries—right on the edge between “perfectly softened” and “plunging to a soggy, caffeinated demise” if you leave it a second too long.

For about fifteen glorious seconds, the universe narrows to a single objective:

Keep the biscuit intact.

The coffee disappears. The conversation fades into the background. Time itself slows as you judge the exact moment between “still crunchy” and “catastrophic structural failure.”

Then comes that first bite…

“Mmmfff…”

At which point coherent speech is no longer an option.

“I’ll just have one.”

Five custard creams later…

“…I may have miscalculated.”

Custard creams have a remarkable ability to convince perfectly sensible adults that eating half a packet is somehow a reasonable accompaniment to a single mug of coffee.

And then comes the moment.

Every biscuit dunker knows that moment.

The coffee ripples innocently.

The biscuit bends by perhaps… half a millimetre.

Your brain, in a split second, performs about seventeen calculations.

“Hmm… that’s more flex than I’d expect…”

…crack…

“No…”

…snap…

“NOOOOOOOO!”

Too late.

One half remains triumphantly between your fingers.

The other executes a graceful, slow-motion dive into the abyss.

Plop.

For a heartbeat, you can still see the pale golden edge beneath the surface. Then the coffee closes over it like dark water over a shipwreck.

You stare into the mug, contemplating whether the laws of etiquette permit fishing expeditions with a teaspoon.

They do, of course.

But you know you’re not recovering a biscuit.

You’re recovering…

custard sediment.

At that point the coffee has become a trifle with an identity crisis.

We nod in gentle remembrance of what might have been.

A respectful silence falls.

“We gather here today to remember one who gave everything…”

A lone teaspoon is lowered into the mug.

“It was taken from us before its time.”

“It had so much filling left to give.”

A tiny ripple disturbs the coffee.

Somewhere beneath the surface lies a pale, sweet memory, slowly becoming one with the brew.

The mourners bow their heads.

Ashes to ashes.

Crumbs to coffee.

Then, on the canteen noticeboard, a flyer appears.

Therapy in the Round
Wednesdays – 6:00 pm
Behind the works canteen

“Good evening everyone. My name’s Brian… and it’s been three weeks since I lost a Bourbon.”

“Hello, Brian.”

“It looked solid. I thought I’d timed it perfectly. Then it folded… just… folded.”

A sympathetic murmur circles the room.

“I reached in with the teaspoon.”

“We’ve all done it, Brian.”

“I tried to pretend it was intentional.”

“There’s no judgement here.”

A lady in the corner raises her hand.

“I lost a custard cream.”

The room falls silent.

Someone instinctively reaches across and squeezes her hand.

Another quietly passes over a fresh packet.

The facilitator nods gently.

“Remember our mantra.”

The whole circle joins in.

Dunk with confidence.

Retrieve with dignity.

Accept the occasional sacrifice.

From the back of the room, a quiet voice asks,

“Was it… a full immersion?”

“…Yes.”

A collective intake of breath.

“Oh… mate.”

Meeting adjourned.

Tea is served.

Nobody dunks for the first five minutes.