tim tams

Tim Tams come in packets of 11. Note that 11 is a prime number. It cannot be divided by 2 or 3 or 4 or 5. It can, in fact, only be divided by itself (11) or 1. It is a ghastly number, then, isn’t it? It is an uncompromising, hassle of a number.

If you are having some friends over for a game of Scrabble or Tetris or whatever – I don’t know what your preferences are – you may like to, probably most definitely, accompany the game or whatever it is that you are doing with some Tim Tams. Why Tim Tams? Tim Tam’s are a classic. They make people happy. I do not know anyone who would say no to a Tim Tam. Not the original Tim Tam anyway. Also, I do not know how many are in packets of other, less lovely biscuits, and clearly, I cannot make a case out of numbers and biscuits and packets which I know nothing about.

So, yes, there you are, playing Scrabble and the game is dragging on. Everyone has far too many vowels and x and q are frequenting more than they are welcome. Frustration is floating above the board, like an aura that is destined to accompany the game. It is young Fletcher’s turn – picture a typical Fletcher and what he might look like and you’ll know I’m right about this – and he is going into his sixth minute of deliberation over which few or less or more letters he will place on the board. He’s got his pocket dictionary in one hand and is flipping through the pages one by one. It’s a tight fit now, and everyone understands it’s getting very difficult, but six minutes? Really.

At the start of the game you had all agreed not to use the timer, that it wouldn’t be necessary and would just make everyone feel stressed and uncomfortable. You all came for a good night, after all. But this is ridiculous.

The innocent tapping of fingers and thighs and feet start first. Then there are the sighs. It is a minute or more so before the comments begin. Fletcher is getting anxious, angry. He is talking through his teeth. “Just wait,” he says. More comments. More sighs. “I’ve almost got it,” he says. More comments. More sighs. Fletcher is starting to sweat. Everyone else is starting to grind their teeth. Jaws are hard and it is just moments away from unrestrained swearing. Maybe slaps, punches, kicks.

You need to do something immediately. You cannot tell Fletcher to hurry up or go home. He will cry. No one really wants to see Fletcher cry.

Tim Tams!

You need Tim Tams.

So you dart off to the fridge – Tim Tams are best served chilled – and retrieve the humble packet. You return to the scene, rip the packet open, and offer each of your guests a tasty treat. They accept, happily, greedily. Everything changes. Young Fletcher even gets an encouraging pat on the back. Eventually, Fletcher adds a T to the board. Top is the word. Everyone cheers. “Top man, Fletcher,” says one. “Top word that,” gushes another. The other three of you go on to have your turns. The Tim Tams are disappearing. You have all had two each now. Three remain.

Again it is Fletcher’s turn. Again he struggles. The earlier scene begins to recreate itself and as a preventative, or perhaps a defensive, measure, you draw attention to the Tim Tams. You each take one, except for Fletcher who is busy busy busy. Again, Fletcher gets an encouraging pat on the back, and eventually he adds I to the board. Big is the word. Everyone cheers. “Big man, Fletcher,” says one. “Big word that,” gushes another. He goes to take a Tim Tam – there is cause for celebration, after all – and cannot find what he seeks. Alas! No Tim Tams remain. Fletcher runs out of the room and cries.

Nobody wanted to see Fletcher cry. If only there had been 12 in a packet, you see. 12 is a wonderful, versatile number. It is divisible by 1, 2, 3, 4, and 6. That would be a great packet of biscuits to work with, I am sure. Arnotts would do well to take my considered advice.