My new pleasure's a dirty little secret

There are dozens of cliches to describe the unusual state of our psyche that compels us always to always want what we can't have, to perceive the grass being greener on the other side and for absence to make the heart grow fonder. These are all perfectly understandable, I just never thought they would apply to me ... and Marmite.

For all of my life, I have been a Vegemite girl. I have stood steadfast in the Vegemite camp in each of the inevitable arguments that crop up occasionally like a rite of passage while growing up Down Under.

I remember as kids when asked what we wanted on our toast for breakfast, we would all chirrup back "dot-to-dot-on-soft-Vegemite-please", which made absolutely no sense but had something to do with Mum getting the mix of Vegemite and melted butter just so.

As a teenager at boarding school, one of our greatest pleasures when given our own toaster and an unlimited daily supply of bread was to see who could eat the most slices slathered in five parts butter to one part Vegemite.

As an adult I've sadly had to sacrifice the butter but on special occasions, such as cold winter mornings when I go back to bed with breakfast and a good book, I treat myself to Vegemite the way it ought to be, thick with real butter.

Given this long love affair, I'll confess to being rather smug about the recent Marmite crisis. It would do the Marmite lovers good to be brought down a few pegs from the lofty regard with which they have always held themselves in.

Who knows, the shortage might even reel in the odd convert or two.

I didn't really think much more about Marmite until yesterday, to my absolute surprise, I discovered half a pot of it lurking in the dark recesses of my pantry.

Although I was mystified as to its origin, I could only conclude it had been there in plain sight for months ... years even, but as good as invisible until a media frenzy made its presence register in my brain.

Several thoughts occurred to me in quick succession: how the hell did it get there (I have always been at great pains to associate only with Vegemite eaters) ... how much would half a small tub fetch on the newly emerging Marmite black market and ... what the hell did it taste like?

Looking furtively around me to be sure there were no witnesses, I opened the lid and dipped my finger in.

Like a fine wine connoisseur I rolled the flavour around my mouth and considered its merits from every angle. Unlike a fine wine connoisseur, I didn't then spit it out. In fact to my emerging horror, I dipped my finger back in for more.

Could it be that after all these years of dissing it, I actually liked Marmite?

And to discover this right at the moment when I could no longer get it seemed brutal ... like another slap in the face from the pretentious Marmite lovers' club, and truly one of life's great ironic tragedies.

After spreading some thinly on my boyfriend's sandwiches so that he could proudly take them to work and be the envy of all his colleagues, I burrowed a passage through the stacks of tinned tomatoes, half-empty packets of breadcrumbs and other forgotten pantry items and found a dusty, obscure corner where I could stash what remained of the Marmite.

Until such time as it was in plentiful supply again, or I could at least figure out a way to confess to my conversion without being subjected to public humiliation from all the Marmite eaters in my acquaintance, the tub would sit there, with only occasional visits by me and a small spoon, my own dirty little secret.