Sometimes I regret eating so much pudding. Yesterday was one of those times. After a whole week of shameless gorging, I finally cracked after a stodgy custard doughnut. I don’t even like doughnuts – I just ate it because it was there – and as soon as it was gone I felt the weight of Christmas bulging from my hips.
It was time to hit the exercise bike.
Some people exercise because they love keeping fit. I exercise in order to buy myself calories. A jog to the park means a second slice of cheesecake. A walk to work means extra rows of chocolate. And a spell on the bike means a guilt-free custard doughnut. Like a medieval businessman paying alms for his space in heaven, with exercise I buy myself a good place at the pudding counter.
I have often heard that fidgeting is a handy way to burn up calories, so sometimes, when I’m standing in the kitchen, preparing for dessert, I stretch and rotate like a woman possessed, desperate to justify what’s coming. So it was last night, when an evening of minor calisthenics bought me a bowl of sliced banana, thick fudge ice cream, and alcoholic chocolate sauce. Entirely worth the effort of a warm-up. I even included some weight-lifting (spoon to mouth and back again, in case you were after specifics).
One day, I’m sure, my obsession will catch up with me, and I’ll be lolling about in my armchair, struggling to stand and fetch another strudel. But for now, at least, I’m still just about in the lead.