Due to popular demand (well Mentos and Antarctican are both popular and they asked so it counts).... It was a dark and stormy night one dark, stormy April back in 1972 (or was it 3?). Avis and I found ourselves, by a strange set of circumstances I won't go into, in a strange part of the world. Cleethorpes, I think, or was it Bradford? I forget. Anyway, we made acquaintance with some young ladies - the way you do when far from home and bored - and, to cut a short story even shorter - we ended up at someone's house for a party. The night was long and we were young so we got up to some hi jinx, let me tell you, and both made a reputation for ourselves which is still remembered in popular ballads in the pubs. Co-incidentally the house next door to the one we were systematically wrecking in our alcohol-fueled high spirits was robbed. The entire family was slaughtered and the spoons and coal purloined. No clue was to be found save a half-eaten chocolate cake with the word 'avis' clearly emblazoned upon it in multi-coloured icing. The police naturally assumed that the unfortunate woman of the house, in an heroic effort to identify the culprit of so heinous a crime, used her culinary expertise and her last breath to whip up a quick chocolate cake and decorate it with the miscreants name. That it was half-eaten was put down to rats, fortunately not starving in that part of the world or the woman's work would have been for naught. In short order Avis was arrested, soundly beaten, tried, found guilty and thrown into the deepest and darkest dungeon to be found locally. I was the only one to believe his piteous cries of innocence for he was like a friend to me. And not one to walk out on a meal ticket I hatched a plan - probably stolen from an old movie, but I forget. Disguising myself as the gaoler's young daughter I simpered my way into the prison and freed Avis with the aid of a large mallet and a dose of feminine wiles (borrowed from a lady friend for the evening). My part in this whole sorry story was never revealed until now but Avis is still wanted in that part of the world. Plastic surgery has helped to hide him all these years (and I had to sell my vast collections of spoons and coal to pay for it) but he has never been able to look at a chocolate cake since without a shudder of terror. I never bothered to tell him or the police that the icing read 'Happy Birthday Mavis'. Or that the cake was delicious. I just didn't think it was relevant.