Ashbourne and the Cronut.

I forgot to go into the bakeshops and ask about cronuts, but I remembered when I got to the supermarket. I sidled around the counter and called out to the people at the back of the bakery section.

‘Have you got any cronuts?’

‘Any what?’ asked the young woman in the sexy (!) white trilby.

‘Cronuts.’ The young woman coloured up as her eyes betrayed both amusement and embarrassment.

‘I don’t know what they are,’ she said.

‘You don’t know what cronuts are? How dumb!’ (It seemed appropriate in the circumstances to use the American vernacular.)

‘I’ve never ’eard of ’em either,’ affirmed her young male colleague, slowly and with a downbeat countenance. He says everything slowly and with a downbeat countenance. It's as though he’s only just discovered that the world is a terrible place and is never going to get any better.

So then I put them at their ease by admitting that my familiarity with the cronut was a mere twenty four hours old, and explained all about croissants, doughnuts, New York and taking the world by storm. They appeared interested, but not massively impressed. Ashbourne isn’t the sort of place to be impressed by flighty new things from far-flung shores, and it’s my guess that the cronut will remain an unknown quantity for a few years yet. Bit like the potato, really.