Tuesday, 11 May 2021

No, really, where you live governs what you eat!

TODAY marks my first month at Weight Watchers — and the second week in a row that I’ve given the meeting a big, fat swerve.

I know, I know — you’re supposed to go, even if you’ve had a “bad week” (and when they say bad week, they mean seven days spent scoffing stuff that’s so astronomically high in points, there’s not enough room on your tracker to record them), but I can’t bear the shame of having put on the seven pounds I lost in the first week. And then some.

Of course, I blame the kids.

The other day, I was talking to a fellow single mum friend of mine, whose only daughter is 18 and about to leave the nest, bemoaning the fact I can’t control myself around The Club at Mapledurham’s unbelievably good hot chocolates. She was incensed.

“What?” she screeched down the phone. “You go to the gym, do your weights, treadmill, yoga — hit the pool, the sauna and the jacuzzi and then blow it all necking ludicrously sweet hot chocolates?”

I hadn’t mentioned the plate of curly fries. Or the fact that I hadn’t even been to the gym, I’d headed straight to the café to wait for the kids while they had their swimming lessons.

“Who even has hot chocolates...” she went on, “in summer?”

“Well, the weather has been a bit autu...”

“That’s not the point! Hot chocolates are for kids and you’re nearly 50!”

Politely thanking her for the timely reminder, I got off the phone and surveyed the detritus in front of me. Oops, turns out I’d neglected to mention the Twixes I’d bought “for the kids” and demolished before I’d even sat down, too.

Which led me to the conclusion that my weight gain is all the kids’ fault. Because if the kids weren’t into scarfing such unspeakable junk every chance they got, I wouldn’t be forced to save them from certain sugar death and dispose of the offending sweets in the only way that makes sense.

It simply wouldn’t do to chuck chocolate in the nearest bin, now, would it?

I suppose I could just not buy the stuff in the first place, the buck truly stopping with me on this one.

So perhaps it’s not all the kids’ fault and maybe, just maybe, there’s another evil force at play… the dog!

Yes, I’ve even stooped so low (well, as low as my belly will allow) as to blame Cookie for my unstoppable weight gain, too.

Not that I’m stealing his Mackerel Morsels or surreptitiously squirting the liver-flavoured Kong filler straight into my mouth like it was sugary whipped cream or anything. Yet.

It’s just that even in The Pet Barn in Sonning Common, along with the bones, pizzles and stinky tendons up for grabs, there’s Snickers, Mars bars and Kit Kats winking at you from behind the counter, too.

I mean, you can’t take Cookie out for a three-hour yomp in Kingwood Common without stopping in at the Pet Barn on your way home, shortly before you pull in at the Co-op to grab a few packets of those more-ish giant milk chocolate cookies, now, can you?

It would be rude not to, actually. And well done you for supporting local business like that. Bravo for your community spirit, if not your ever-broadening beam.

Speaking of, have you sampled the cakes at the Stoke Row Store lately? If I haven’t already swooped in and bought the whole lot, you may have had a chance and, needless to say, they’re yum-diddly-umptious.

Which is another unwanted feature of this weighty time in my life because I’m eating for England all the chocolate that I can get my hands on. I even start talking like a child jacked up on sugar.

Everything is yummy or super-yum, scrummy, yumsters, yumtious or just plain old deloycious. Even the kids are embarrassed about the way I talk. Which is nothing new, I suppose.

So, in the final analysis, it becomes clear that, yes, it is our postcode’s fault that I’m chunking up like a good ’un — there are just too many totally tasty places to chow down in Oxfordshire.

Of course, it’s not just the postcode’s fault, the kids play their part, too, as does the dog… everyone and everything other than myself is to blame, it would appear.

In fact, it’s one big, fat conspiracy.

But that’s another story…

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