(Chapter 2 - somewhat shorter)
Whilst the recipe for the pudding remained with the teashop owner and her family, puddings made to that recipe travelled all over the world, brought back by travellers as gifts. You might find a Yorkshireman in Scotland enjoying it, or a Scotsman in Hampshire. Over in America, a Texan took a break from tending to his garden to enjoy some, whilst another tried to protect hers from her flock of cats. In the Arizonian desert, a grandma shook her stick at some cheeky kids who tried to sneak up on her to steal it, and further north a pshrink locked his door, turned the heating up then lay back on his couch and took a quick break to enjoy some. Another made its way to France, via Wales, smuggled in with a packet of HobNobs. Somewhere in Canada, two pieces, in two separate buildings, lay covered - one to protect it from wood shavings, the other to protect it from paint. Down under, a snake warily climbed onto a balcony to try and grab a piece, then shot off, convinced for a moment it saw an ape of some sort guarding it. In Germany, a piece was enjoyed with some beer, even though they didn’t go particularly well together.
Not everyone was happy about this. In particular, the ICC (International Cake Cartel, nothing to do with cricket, although it did use that august organisation as a front) wanted to get hold of the recipe and either mass produce it or destroy it for good. Either one would be satisfactory. However they couldn’t be seen to do something so ruthless as steal the recipe themselves. What they could do was organise a harmless advertising campaign that could change the hearts and minds of thousands, which might just be to the advantage of another organisation - if they would do the actual work. Sara, deputy assistant to the assistant of the deputy assistant’s assistant to the CEO’s deputy’s deputy assistant, got on the phone.
“Good mor, err, afternoon, PDHIMETTDJPNS, Sally speaking, how may I help you?”
“‘Allo? Is thees the PNS?” said a female voice with possibly the worst fake French accent ever. Sally glanced at the phone. The caller ID showed the caller was calling from the UK. She rolled her eyes.
“Yes, how may I help you?”
“Ahh. I am Mis….errrm, mademoiselle Lee. I am calling on be’alf of Monsieur Kipleeng. May I speak with Monsieur Nuttking?”
“Transferring you now, caller”