a la recherche de hoddlebun perdu

Dublin at evening.
My mobile phone trills.
It is the Bun.
"Jamie I need to see you for coffee," sez she.
Interestingly enough I do not leap at the opportunity. Instead I make my famous patented noncommittal sounds of dubious reluctance.
(They're sort of like a dolphin in pain - ed note.)
"Um, er, wellllllll..."
Big Hair is not deterred.
"I want to give you your Christmas present," sez she.
Ah. She knows my weaknesses.
Deep intake of breath for Ireland's greatest living poet.
"That's okay Hodders," quoth I grimly, "as long as it's not a candle, a coffee cup or a photocopy of one of your paintings."
A short silence.
"It's not," sez she.
Half an hour later we are sitting together in the Mac Cafe on Grafton Street, quaffing the usual.
She Who Knows Not Taste passes a brightly wrapped package across the table.
I open it.
And lo.
Uneatable Belgian chocolates.
"Hoddlebun," I murmur tenderly, "this is quite the best present you've ever bought me."