Daniel and I ate a millefeuille each on the shore of the River Thames, directly below the Royal Festival Hall. It was low tide, and very sunny. A millefeuille is always tricky to eat but these were especially so. They were like bricks. We stretched our mouths to silent howls to take bites of these confectioners' custard and flaky pastry double layered pastries, and, inevitably, some of it wound up on our fingers. We washed these in the grainy waters of the Thames.
On the way back, over Waterloo Bridge, we watched a fat river cruiser ferrying tourists westwards. As it passed under the bridge, Daniel said how nice it would be to drop a millefeuille onto the deck of the boat, or better still onto the head of a tourist.
The shock and anger partly dissipated by the satisfaction of tasting the sweet gooey mess picked off their head like sticky rubble.
"It's millefeuille! Hey! It's millefeuille!!"
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