Right this second, as I’m typing this sentence, I’m munching on the first cookie of a family packet of chocolate biscuits. “Even MORE Choc Chips” it advertises garishly, promoting the fact that you can get away eating the rest of the extra biscuits because at least you intended to buy a regular sized packet. That’s not to say I’m going to actually get through the entire packet, but I at least plan on making a significant dent before 4 o’clock.
Why? Because it’s the weekend, that’s why. What an excuse that is for every bad decision I’ve put into my body for the past couple of days. Another one is that I’m young, and why not? My motto since Friday afternoon has been if I’ll be happy telling the story, then I’m happy enough to do it.
Yesterday while nursing a hangover, I had absolutely nothing to eat apart from a bag of salt and vinegar crisps until a parmo at 9pm. If you’ve never heard of a parmo, it’s a piece of breaded chicken covered in cheese and grease, and will cost you around 2,000 calories per serving – that’s a fact. Not exactly the best dinner to solve my stomach troubles and nausea, but it tasted nice.
I hate to say it, but because of my job, I’m starting to think twice about what I’m eating on a weekend. Maybe spending £20 on cookies and chocolate brownies yesterday was a bad idea, and maybe scoffing these biscuits will do nothing but give me a cheap sugary thrill before storing themselves away in my arteries. Next time I’ll pick a salad.