The next few weeks look set to be manic – we go on holiday in four weeks but before we go I have to deadline three magazines, take Mort on a mini-break, organise car parking and currency, exercise furiously, perfect cantering and, worst of all, go shopping for bikinis. Something tells me I’m going to need this holiday.
This is the last weekend before the madness really begins. So I have, by accident or design, spent most of it in my pyjamas, eating.
Yesterday, we had a barbeque and I’m pretty sure I ate my body weight. Mostly because of my new obsession – homemade sweet potato chips. Someone really needs to give sweet potatoes some kind of a medal. They’re like regular potatoes in a party dress.
Barbeques are brilliant. For the flame grilled loveliness, obviously, but also because there is an unwritten rule that women aren’t allowed anywhere near them. The sight of an open flame and slabs of raw meat obviously stirs the ‘inner caveman’ and Dan is quite happy to spend ages standing in front of our charcoal pit, poking at the meat until he’s 90% sure it won’t give us food poisoning.
In the meantime, I get to sit in the corner, sip on a glass of wine and read a new magazine until my 90% safe burger is delivered unto me.
I then had a two-hour nap, wrapped in a blanket on the sofa, and by crumbs it was good. Mort also embraced his inner-granny (he didn’t need much convincing) and when I woke I had almost forgiven him for waking me up at an unholy hour by sticking his bum in my face.
Today, I got right back on the gluttony train. My friend Rachel had blogged earlier this week about an amazing cake she had baked, and I had been thinking about this bad boy of a cake for a while.
Hers was much, much better than my attempt. Partially, I suspect, down to the fact that she had checked she actually had all the ingredients before she started.
After I made three sponges (the recipe calls for more, but I only have limited equipment and patience) I realised I had run out of vanilla extract. So I did what I always do in times of cake crisis. I threw some chocolate at the situation.
It would have looked better with white icing, but Dan actually prefers to chocolate version – mostly because he doesn’t ‘believe’ in cake unless it contains cocoa. It actually tastes much better than I thought it would – although it is quite sickly and vast, so it might take us weeks to finish it.
Tonight I am looking forward to watching the Olympics closing ceremony while continuing the comfort-food theme: cheesy mash potato with bacon and baked beans. Sometimes, you need a meal that only requires one piece of cutlery.
But tomorrow I will ignore the vast chocolate cake and begin a month-long regime of eating salad and having no fun in a bid to avoid looking like a beached whale on holiday.
Actually, sod it, I might just invest in some billowing maxi dresses. They were invented for a reason, after all. And that reason is for women with no willpower, an aversion to exercise and a crack-like addiction to the Holy Trinity – cheese, chocolate and chilled white wine.