I’m having cup cake issues: I can’t stop eating them. I also can’t stop thinking about them and, worst of all, I can’t stop seeing them every-bloody-where (including my dreams). Now I know I can’t be alone in this since it seems that every Tom, Dick and Harry (or their female equivalents) seem to be making them these days so there must be others who are having cupcake temptation issues. THEY ARE EVERYWHERE! So as I walk past the latest local vendor plying me with their wares (I don’t need to walk in the shop even – I can smell the fuckers as I walk past) I find myself justifying why it is that today I deserve one. Because I’ve done ‘x’, found ‘x’ emotionally challenging, feel a little bit ‘x’, … But the reality is that regardless of ‘x’, ‘x’ and ‘x’, I know I’ll have one just the same. I am just plain addicted.And suffice it to say that it is my waistline that has suffered1. By about 1/2 a stone in the last few weeks, and an inch or so in circumference. (Rough estimate.) OK, so I’ve not turned into a whale, but it’s just enough to stop my trousers from doing up and for my cheeks to have filled out to give my face a decidedly (full-) moon like appearance. And I don’t suit moon. So here’s the plan: I’m going to adopt the phrase ‘fuck you cupcake’ as my daily mantra and go on the cabbage soup diet for a week. Wish me luck. I’ll report back post cabbage.
It’s 6:30am and I am skipping in my cold, dark garden. I am having another one of my funny I-must-exercise-right-now turns and I am looking for someone to blame. I mutter with each skip, grunt with each hop, and swear at those hops that result in me nearly falling flat on my (slightly pudgier) face as the rope catches on my (c)ankle. I am not very good at this. And become even worse the more I tire. After about 50 (non consecutive) skips I give up. That’ll do. That’ll burn it off. ‘It’ being Christmas.
Bloody f-ing Christmas. Sitting there all smug with your endless starters, mains, puddings and cheese courses. Mmmm cheese…. Damn it, there I go again. Cheese! Just get the hell out of my house will you? Am I going to be forced to eat you all up until you’re finally satisfied with yourself? Or shall I make a pasta sauce and freeze your smug little ass so that I can throw you out in a year when I find you sitting at the back of the freezer drawer looking thoroughly sorry for yourself. Well let’s just see if there are any crackers left. That will be the deciding fact… oh fuck it there are. Well just a little sliver then…