Scones can be sad. They promise so much and often deliver so little. And they do this when you really need them to be good. At weekends I often see lone dads – are they divorced, or have they just been given the kids for the day? – tackling scones in parks, zoos, cafés that will tolerate spillages and mushed-up biscuits. I’ve been there myself, pushing a pram around, stupefied by lack of sleep, longing for a pot of strong tea…and a scone.
The scone should be the peak of a perfect afternoon, accompanied by home-made jam and clear blue skies. The prospect of them is full of hope. And then you eat one. At first it seems good – your imagination and optimism helps – but as a bit of claggy dough sticks...