A Biscuit Story

There were some biscuits in the kitchen at work today; Milk Arrowroot, Gingersnap, and - yes - Scotch Fingers.

Ah, Scotch Fingers. The Scotch Finger and I go back a long way. Back in my childhood, growing up in Balranald, the packet of Scotch Fingers was brought out only on special occasions, like Christmas, the New Year, or each time a new Prime Minister got voted in. I don't know where they came from, these wonder biscuits - maybe Mum kept them locked in a golden box with her jewellery or something.
There we would sit, at the family table, solemnly ruminating upon our single Scotch Finger, and Mum would tell us The Tale.

"When I worked for the Arnott's factory," she would say, "In the typing pool, Mr. Arnott would come upon the balcony every day to check up on the girls."

That was the tale. Not very exciting, I guess. No blood or guts to speak of; very little violence, and not a hint of sex. But we were simple people, with simple joys.

Nowadays, of course, we have moved on from the Scotch Finger. The Scotch Finger is no longer the King of the Biscuits, nor even the Jack of Biscuits. No, my family are no longer among that Scotch-Finger-Munching, Instant-Coffee-Sipping crowd of country town dwellers. No longer are we forced to subsist upon such meagre rusks. No!

We move amongst a better class of people now. For we have discovered Tim Tams.