“Jus’ Rol ~ Pastry to be proud of ~ Bake-it-fresh – 6 Croissants. This message will self-destruct in five…days” – that’s what it said on the outside of the tin (all except for the bit about self-destructing in five days!). Yes, bake your own French Croissants come in handy tins these days, and rather attractive they are; at least Chris thought so when we were at Lidl’s supermarket at the weekend.

“Let’s get a few tins,” suggested Chris excitedly, “then we’ll be able to have fresh French croissants whenever we wish!”

It’s quite a coincidence that on the same week that Chris wanted to “go French” I also wanted to “go French”, just in a less delightful, and hopefully, more lightful way by means of the good Doctor Dukan’s diet, yet again (I have to brace myself every so often).

This morning, with a heavy heart (and step to match) I entered our kitchen and wondered what to have for breakfast. I didn’t have to wonder for long because I well know that when I’m on the Dukan diet porridge is nearly always on the menu, and there was a bucketful of it in the fridge (I find it’s no more vile reheated over several days). But while I stopped momentarily to ponder on the subject there was an almighty sound of an explosion or crash, which came from one of the cupboards.

“Are you on a crash diet again?” Chris asked, getting up to check out the cupboard. “Ho, would you believe it? Just look at this…”

The tins of bake-your-own croissants had each exploded at one end and the dough had burst out like three giant, silver-faced witchetty grubs (Australian wormy caterpillar things) too large for their cocoons.

“Let’s have a French breakfast,” said Chris joyfully, “and we can give the ones we don’t eat to our neighbours.”

So being an obliging wife, I put on the oven and flattened the fat witchetty grubs with a rolling pin before cutting them into triangles and rolling them into crescent shapes.

“Do they need to be covered in beaten egg?” I asked Chris, who had the instructions.

“Not that I can see,” he answered squinting – he didn’t have his glasses on.

Fifteen minutes later I opened the oven door and a rush of hot black smoke hit me in the eyes. The fat witchetty grubs might have fared better by going straight into the oven; sadly, a spell in the furnace had turned the deflated crescent shaped pieces of dough into things that resembled burnt sausages –  matt, fat-less sausages at that!

Doctor Dukan would have been pleased to see us empty the trays into the bin. After eating a tiny bowl of three-day-old porridge reheated in the microwave I joined Chris in having a slice of nice raisin toast with butter; I couldn’t resist – it was mission impossible. Tomorrow it’s back to the bread board.