When I was little, and felt ill, my dad would sometimes make me what he called "a posset". This was supposed to make me feel better. Always excited by the culinary delights of the man who'd created Spaghetti Bolognaise a la banana (sadly, this is true), I was delighted by the idea. Apart from the banana incident, Mr Nunn's kitchen creations are generally pretty good. This is lucky, because if I'd had to survive on Mrs Nunn's cuisine (spaghetti with a tin of mushroom soup, spaghetti with a lump of goat's cheese... basically anything that involved spaghetti. And tuna. Lots of tuna. I digress.), I'd have probably starved to death aged eight. Out of choice.
So Mr Nunn would make me a posset. I'm uncertain of the exact recipe (being ill I was usually in bed when it was brought to me), but I believe it involved hot milk, raw eggs, some sort of alcohol - perhaps brandy - and nutmeg. Mr Nunn would bring it up to my room and I would drink it down. This drink was a miracle. It had a 100% success rate. Because literally minutes after drinking said posset, I would be vomiting my guts up. And then I would feel much better. Mrs Nunn eventually banned the use of possets.
And years later I found out a) nutmeg is a natural emetic (makes you sick) b) nutmeg is also a poison if taken in large enough quantities and c) I am actually quite allergic to both eggs and nutmeg.
So, if the child protection agencies are reading this, Mr Nunn used to feed his unwell only daughter with poison and alcohol. And never bought me a pony. Do you think I've got enough material here for one of those tear-jerker "terrible childhood" novels?