There were two branches of Thorntons in Sheffield when I was growing up, but because only one of them was by a stop for our bus, family shopping trips always involved, until I was in possession of hard cash myself, a certain amount of faux-casual, ruthlessly opportunistic manipulation. Basically, if you could persuade your mum to take this route (as opposed to that route) around town, you’d wind up at the aforementioned bus stop rather than the very bleak one opposite Barry Noble’s Roxy Nite Spot, at which point there was every chance that she would buy you a quarter of special toffee as you waited for the number 51. The best strategy was to look meekly un-needy; to breathe in the buttery smells wafting from its door while never actually asking for the goods themselves. Pleased by your forbearance, the offer would then be made – unless the bus appeared first, in which case you’d have to make do with a corned beef sandwich back at home.
I thought about those long ago shopping trips as I read the obituaries of Tony Thornton, the chocolate maker’s former chairman, who died in January (his grandfather founded the company, which recently announced plans to close all its shops, in Sheffield in 1911). Ah, for the days when my idea of an unimprovably posh chocolate was a Viennese truffle. But in these times, thinking is not enough, is it? As we arrive, pale-faced and blinking, at the first anniversary of the first lockdown, I’m beset by sudden cravings – urgent longings on which I must act immediately. Putting down the newspaper, I ran to my desk. Minutes later, I’d added a bag of special toffee to my weekly supermarket haul, where it joined various other items I haven’t eaten in years, the most embarrassing of which was … actually, I can’t bear to tell you that.
Hunger is a simple thing for me. My stomach growls, and my mind responds: what’s for dinner? Cravings are different. They have to do with the heart, not the belly. Like everyone, I’m restless, if not exactly bored. The world having grown so small, tiny things have, I know, become disproportionately important: God forgive the person who comes between me and my first cup of coffee these days. But my desires are also proxies: substitutes for people, places and, above all, better times. Though the things I want are often no good for me, many of them being processed and sugary, in another way, they’re absolutely what I need. I’d rather have an appointment with a Curly Wurly than no meetings at all.
It is exhausting, though. My brain dings with demands: custard tarts, Parma ham; chicken livers, Love Hearts; a certain kind of yoghurt. My mind is not a mobile phone, and I cannot simply turn off its insistent notifications. Worse, the delicious things I long for sometimes turn out to be not so delicious after all. The special toffee, when it arrived, was too sweet – I’ve grown too used to high cocoa solids and sea salt – and now it loiters in a drawer, reminding me of my folly every time I search for the corkscrew (which is too often, but that’s a different story).
I try hard to ignore the ticker-tape in my head. But I’m so suggestible. No activity is safe. Reading the new biography of Philip Roth, I thought of New York, and wanted that frazzled bacon beloved of American diners. Watching Call My Agent, my fantasies about Parisian brasseries became so crazed, I wasted 40 minutes browsing snail dishes (snails themselves were not available at my supermarket of choice). Passing a favourite, long-shuttered Vietnamese restaurant, I experienced a yearning for crispy pancakes so intense, when I got home I held a bottle of fish sauce beneath my nose, the better that I could inhale it, like perfume. On and on it goes, this cycle of craving and (temporary) satiety. A few moments ago, my eyes flicked to the bookcase by my desk, where there is a photograph of my dad. It made me think of junket, and a certain kind of spicy lamb stew, and in a moment, I will duly add the ingredients needed to make both to my virtual shopping basket – the third (or fourth) time I will have visited it today.
