Feeling somewhat deflated

I was so looking forward to it. This little treat for myself, miraculously preserved from the gannets I share a roof with, saved for a special day, the last day of my confinement. 
The taut bag was tantalisingly close to being cracked open. It was all mine, filled to the brim with those gorgeous crisps, cut with a crinkle knife for extra crunchiness and handcooked by Mrs and Mr Keogh on their family farm. 
The sudden loss of pressure when I finally did open the bag (there is only so much delaying of gratification that can be reasonably expected from an epicurean crinkle crisps lover) first started to raise my suspicion. As I avidly inhaled the first delicate scents of farmhouse cheese and red onions, I could also smell a rat. 
One peak inside the bag confirmed my initial fears: the Keoghs pack more air into their bags than actual crisps, the robbing bastards. 

Grown with love in Ireland, my crinkly arse.