Gluttony (33 Weeks)

What a day of terrible food decisions this has turned out to be.

I had the mother of all food wobblies on the way into work this morning. I had a check-up first thing, which was uneventful – I thought it was pretty rude of TJ to stick out his/her bottom for the doctor’s inspection, but at least it was a bottom of normal size and weight – so drove in later than usual. Still, when the twitchiness started somewhere around Pangbourne, I ignored it. I don’t usually want to gnaw off my own arm by 9.30am. I decided I must just be irritated at the number of Jaguar drivers pottering along at 22mph (for which heinous crime, I believe, only flogging will suffice. No one, apparently, is in a hurry to get anywhere at 9.30).

By Streatley, I was definitely, recognisably hungry – no Jaguars in sight – and tore into my cereal bar at the traffic lights. Ten minutes later, crossing the Oxfordshire border, I ate half my sandwich. The shakes got worse. I ate the other half. By Blewbury I was sweating. As I slowed down for Upton I was forcing my legs to move between accelerator and brake.  At the Harwell roundabout, I couldn’t remember driving through Blewbury.

Rubbish, I thought. Is this a delayed reaction to the Zumba class I thundered through last night? Or is the half a mouldy cupcake I accidentally consumed yesterday making a reappearance? More pressingly, is this the type of emergency occasion that would justify calling into McDonalds?

I decided against McDonalds, as I’d need to spend money on lunch now I’d ravaged my lunchbox. Instead I staggered into the newsagents opposite the office, to see what I could buy for 42p.

Public Service Announcement: You can buy precisely nothing in a newsagents for 42p. Not even Chewitts. For future reference, you need at least 50p for an adequate emergency stash.

USELESS.

Second Public Service Announcement: Asking a calorie-deprived pregnant woman whether you can have your football back (har har) is not a good idea under any circumstances. Particularly if you’re balancing on a unicycle at the time. I only just prevented myself from sticking my foot in his wheel spokes.

[Why was there a man in a unicycle outside the newsagents? Did I hallucinate this?]

At lunchtime, I got myself a jacket potato, which came out looking like this:

And wouldn’t you have guessed, a big cheesy meatbally mess was not really calculated to make me feel better. I ate most of it out of necessity, and never found out whether there was actually a potato in there.

After this I gave up on proper eating for the day, and had honey nut cornflakes for dinner. Which made quite a lot of things better, though now, of course, I’m hungry again.

In my fondest dreams, I just eat breakfast, lunch and dinner, and leave it at that. And the occasional biscuit. (The biscuits are Cadbury’s oat chocolate chip, because my fondest dreams are very precise.)

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