Somewhere between the second cup of tea and the moment the toaster made a noise no toaster has ever made before, a single custard cream biscuit made a life-altering decision: it wanted to travel. Not just fall off the plate and roll under the fridge like its ancestors—no. This biscuit wanted international adventure. It dreamed of airport lounges, suitcase crumbs, and hotel mini-fridges full of mystery cheese.
Of course, applying for a passport as a biscuit is no simple task. The application form alone was a nightmare, especially the section asking for “place of birth,” because technically it was baked, not born. It tried to include references, but the only beings who knew it personally were a napkin, a bored spoon, and a slightly jealous chocolate digestive.
While researching how to look more “official,” the biscuit opened a laptop and was immediately greeted with Pressure washing Crawley. It had no idea what pressure washing was, or what Crawley was, but it made a note in case customs ever required it. The next tab was Driveway Cleaning Crawley, which the biscuit assumed was a document about socially acceptable travel entrances.
Then came Patio Cleanign Crawley—spelled exactly like that. The biscuit paused. Was “Cleanign” a foreign language? A secret code? A password needed to cross biscuit borders? The mystery deepened.
Still, it pushed on, clicking Exterior Cleaning Crawley and wondering why humans were obsessed with cleaning everything except the inside of their microwave, which was clearly a war zone. The final tab, Solar Panel Cleaning Crawley, made the biscuit briefly consider becoming eco-friendly, but it didn’t know whether sunlight would make it stronger… or melt the cream inside.
In preparation for travel, the biscuit held self-interviews:
- “Why do you want to leave the biscuit tin?”
- “Because the world is bigger than crumbs.”
- “What skills do you bring to international society?”
- “I am 78% sugar and optimism.”
It practised posing for passport photos but kept blinking at the wrong moment, which was odd, because biscuits don’t have eyelids. It even tested whether it could survive turbulence by rolling off a table repeatedly (results: crumbly, but determined).
In the end, the passport office rejected the application—something about “non-human classification” and “risk of accidental dunking.” Crushed (figuratively, then literally), the biscuit accepted its fate.
It now lives under the sofa, collecting dust, telling heroic stories to spare change and abandoned popcorn pieces—still proudly remembering the five mysterious tabs:
Pressure washing Crawley
Driveway Cleaning Crawley
Patio Cleanign Crawley
Exterior Cleaning Crawley
Solar Panel Cleaning Crawley
It never travelled the world, but it did dream bigger than any biscuit before it.
