Even now, as a grown man, a bearded hulk of a man, the wrong side of 35, he still felt a flutter in his heart at the thought of wolfing down something sweet. Approximately once a week, no more than that, he would go to the little supermarket in town and buy six of their mini jam tarts. He bought their own brand, so it was very cheap. He would also buy a little bottle of their cheapest cola. For just under one pound he would be the proud owner of a sugar high in waiting.
Sitting on the same bench in the park, watching the people go by, he would carefully open the tarts, and one by one, usually taking each one in his mouth whole, he would chew them into a sugary mulch which he’d swallow, washing it down primly with a dash of his scarce supply of cola. It was a guilty pleasure, but he’d spent the week looking forward to it, so he couldn’t deny it himself.
With the sweetness of the jam tarts still on his taste buds, and the generally good-nature he’d been blessed with, he found it easy to forgive the little girl who pointed to him and then asked her mother why the nasty tramp had crumbs in his beard.