This is not, as it happens, a meringue.
Somewhere in the middle is the brush, which the lump ate as it was pulled from the pot.
Words can barely convey the repulsiveness of the texture: springy and elastic, squidgy and yielding, the smooth surface feeling wet though it was in fact dry, and in places looking dry though it was in fact still wet. And Copydex reeks. All the way up the stairs.
Poking at it was like being back in Form I, doing the dares.