100 YEARS OLD AND STILL PERFORMING MIRACLES...

MIRACLES, I am beginning to think, can be more trouble than they are worth. Last weekend I witnessed one such miracle and I am now paying the price.

It all began when I decided to make a tray of sloth biscuits. These are not, I should point out, biscuits for sloths in the way that dog biscuits are for canines but are biscuits in the shape of sloths. This is no mean feat of baking, for the only sloth-shaped biscuit cutter I could find on the internet was made in the US and the postage would have been five times the cost of the item itself. I have therefore been making my own sloth biscuit cutters out of used tins. One just cuts the top and bottom off the tin, then bends the rest into the desired shape with a pair of pliers.

Thus armed with a cutter, I made the dough for some ginger biscuits (with a touch of cinnamon to add to the flavour), rolled it out and cut out some sloth shapes. Then I turned the leftover dough into thin, flat ginger biscuits to stick into the banana and pineapple ice cream I had just made and put the tray in the oven.

So far, so unmiraculous but when I removed the biscuits from the oven, I was astounded. For while most of the biscuits were either sloth-shaped or slim rectangles, one of the sloths had attached itself to a stick and looked exactly as though it was hanging from a branch. It was by far the most lifelike action sloth biscuit I have ever made.

Of course I took a photograph of it and showed it to several close friends but word of my slothy biscuit miracle seems to have spread with alarming speed. For even though I have always steered clear of so-called “social media” and therefore did not “post” the picture on Instasloth, or Slothbook, or whatever these things are called, it was not long before Beachcomber Towers was being besieged by sloth worshippers from around the globe.

I went out to greet the crowd when I first heard them rattling the gates, assuming they were yet another group of well-wishers trying to persuade me to stand in the forthcoming General Election but as soon as I heard them chanting “Sloth biscuit, sloth biscuit” in reverential tones, I realised what had happened.

“We have come to see the miracle biscuit,” they announced. “It is a sign.” “A sign of what?” I asked. “A sign that we are to come and worship the Slothicon,” they said. “Do you mean Slothicon?” I asked. “Down to the last crumb,” they said. “Go away,” I suggested firmly. “Not until we have seen the biscuit,” they cried.

“Go away or I shall eat the biscuit,” I said, perhaps unwisely.

Several death threats later I promised to show them the biscuit if they came back tomorrow which would give me time to bake more trays of sloths-hanging-from-branches biscuits, so that they could all have one of their own and would not need to keep bothering me.

“A deliberately baked biscuit is not a miracle,” they said, “but thank you anyway,” and they dispersed.

Must go now: I have some biscuits to create.