Just after Christmas, my erstwhile colleague 'Spikes' Walker brought in the remains of his festive scran for the vultures in the office to finish off.
This consisted of a wheelbarrow-full of the taste sensation that is Jacob's Cheeselets, small squares of biscuit impregnated with spray-on cheese flavour and (possibly) drugs.
We feasted on them for several days like Amy Winehouse with the munchies, then, having necked the lot, sat staring wanly at the empty cartons, craving more.
And this is where it does tits-up.
There are no more.
For the last week, we have trudged the means streets of Reading, the not-so-mean-streets of Weymouth and points in between, and have found this many Cheeselets: NONE.
We are beginning to think that Cheeselets never actually existed at all and memories of the initial supply might have been a hallucination brought on by Twiglet fumes.
Where are Cheeselets? WHERE?
I have written them a friendly letter enquiring after the sudden disappearance of our favourite processed food.
Dear United Biscuits,That'll do it.
For the love of God, what happened to all the Cheeselets?
Shop shelves are empty and gangs of disaffected lovers of cheese-flavoured snacks roam the streets with blunt-edged weapons and flaming torches.
This is a travesty, worse than that Jonathon Ross business that you probably had a hand in. SORT IT OUT. NOW.
Think carefully about your answer. Nobody likes to get a steaming, fresh turd through their letterbox.
Please send Cheeselets. Think of the children. Please.