It was Portland Hospital Radio's summer extravaganza over the weekend. Kazzy suggested we have a retro dessert raffle, which sounded totally outlandish but proved very popular. My daughter Louise baked jam roly poly, spotted dick (which she drenched in mint custard reminiscent of puddings from her school days) and a delicious lemon merengue pie. Kazzy attempted Baked Alaska aided by the hospital canteen's industrial microwave, it was a complete flop and I brought banana fritters, which unfortunately went mushy in my bag. Everyone got into the spirit and offered free samples of their desserts. I had mouthwatering summer pudding, sickly crepes suzette and I was teased by a lady who mastered a delicious hot vanilla souffle. It was a wonderful, wonderful day until Ray turned up three sheets to the wind demanding his job back as hospital radio station manager. He staggered into the creme brulee stand, toppled over a stack of profiteroles and stumbled into a tray of Manchester tarts. As he lurched forward to grab Kazzy he knocked me flying into a stall laden with fake Faberge eggs and ornamental glass, thankfully the stall stayed erect but I was left in a heap on the ground nursing a twisted ankle and my pride. An irate lady from oncology sent him on his way with a bag of broken biscuits and a face full of strawberry flan. Silly fool.
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