Evidence that bread and butter pudding can reduce one's chances of ever being published by Faber & Faber

I am so in love with bread and butter pudding that I would willingly have an affair with it if a) such a thing were possible and b) I were able to do so without subjecting my husband to the ignominious accusation of being cuckolded by a dessert.

Having accepted that adultery with a pudding is probably not the way ahead, here instead is a poem about the pudding I made tonight.  Step aside, Wordsworth.

Tonight I made a bread and butter pudding.

It looked just like the one that's in this pic. 

I made it on a whim all of a sudden.

You've never seen a pudding made so quick

(Forgive the adjective instead of adverb

But rhyming at this time of night is tough.)

We'd had our main meal and I fancied pudding

And just a toffee yogurt's not enough.

I dashed into the kitchen and in minutes

I'd buttered bread and sprinkled in sultanas.

I'd whipped up eggs and milk and poured them over

The bread, and then I put on my pyjamas.

(Forgive the odd forced rhyme.  It's nearly midnight.

But I was keen to tell about my pud.)

I scattered in some sugar and some nutmeg

And, Biblically, pronounced that 'It Was Good'.

Then half an hour later, we were scoffing

the bread and butter pudding of our dreams.

My light and fluffy bread and butter pudding -

much better than a hundred custard creams.

(Forgive the rubbish simile.  I chose it

because it rhymed with dreams.  You may have guessed.)

I'm now so full of bread and butter pudding

That I can hardly move, I must confess.

(Forgive the half-rhyme at the end.  I fear that eating a bowl of bread and butter pudding the height of Kilimanjaro may have blunted my capacity for writing effective poetry.)