Okay, the search is over. It’s official. I’m in lurve. My prince has arrived, weapon in hand, and God knows I do like a decent bit of swordplay.
Imagine raspberry ripple ice-cream and freshly sugared strawberries, dollops of delectable clotted cream, all nestled and wrapped in sweet, crunchy meringue and drizzled with thick, melted chocolate. Pour all that gorgeousness into a man’s body. Add sparkly brown eyes and a slightly lop-sided, cheeky grin et voila! Meet Mmm…Meringue Man.
Oh be quiet my rumbling tummy!
And he’s a professional chef. I have visions of him standing at my hob, whipping up delicious dinners with unpronounceable names while I lounge around admiring the view and sampling his wares. He is, of course, naked. His cute buttocks peeking out from behind a crisp white chef’s apron, and we’ll grow (even) old(er) and morbidly obese, together…
Mmm…Meringue Man is my Destiny.
If I could pluck up the courage to send him a bleedin’ message, that is….