Leafing through some photographs on my phone with Mum yesterday, I was alerted to the arrival of an email. Normally, I wouldn’t check while I’m with Mum, but I’ve been waiting for a response on a work matter so I looked. It was an invitation from my local building society to join their customer panel. I said as much to Mum.
“No, Mum, customer panel,” I knowingly corrected her despite not having a clue what it meant.
“Custard panel!” she laughed barely controllably.
It took me back to a day at junior school when my class was asked to write about our favourite food. Some chose cod and chips, others – the more exotic steak and chips (damn, that was sophisticated in the Walsall of the late 60s). Me? I chose custard. Quite what that said about me I don’t know but I proudly declared my love of the yellow stuff to my classmates:
They might have laughed with me, they might have laughed at me but laugh they did. I recounted the story to Mum yesterday. She laughed too. Again, I don’t know the source of the laughter and I don’t care. Perhaps, somewhere, she recalled my love of custard, how she would find an excuse to add custard to most puddings. I hope so. Anyway, it was a lovely, precious moment and I left with a warm glow, not unlike the sensation which followed eating a bowl of Mum’s custard.
Will I join the building society’s customer panel? Probably not. Am I still a fully-paid up member of the custard panel, I certainly am.