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.
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