Temptation and the Diet.
Nope, I'm a savoury sort of gal, I like cheese, crisps, sour or salty things.
After some initial heel dragging I have at last started my training proper for October's Dublin City Marathon. This means- naturally- more running. Now I consider a body not unlike a car in that it needs fuel to run. So to this end I am attempting to clean up my diet a little, you know, making minor adjustments here and there, more fruit, lean meats, cutting back on delicious hooch and treating the toaster like it was a spiritualist.
My current diet consists of eating porridge in the morning. 30gs of oats and some skimmed milk, that's it. It's neither delicious nor not delicious. It is porridge. It is pretty good fuel actually and leaves you fairly full for a goodly number of hours, plus you can run on it.
HOWEVER, I feel I am being sabotaged! By a man no less! By the PARAMOUR. ( I should point out he says he's not doing any such thing, but you know, I'm not sure I believe him)
'Do you want white pudding on toast?' He asked me this morning, opening the fridge door.
This is appalling. Not only is he offering me exactly the sort of breakfast I DO want, he's offering to make it, and Fatcats like having food handed to them.
'No thank you, I'm having porridge.'
I proceed to measure EXACTLY 30g of dried oats into a bowl. I peer at it. It does not look very inspiring. Then I cover it with milk and bung it in the microwave. Behind me the GOOSEFAT or COW LARD or whatever the hell he's using to cook with is beginning to crackle in that filthy frying pan I keep threatening to throw out.
The Paramour- dressed only in his dressing gown that makes him look like a blue grizzly- slices three, THREE, big fat pieces of white pudding off his white pudding ring.
'Got enough pudding there?' I say, ooozing sarcasm on the word enough.
'Yep.' says the man I sleep with, sunnily.
I glare. He hums.
Next he pops two thick WHITE doorstep sized slices of bread into the toaster, the bloody TOASTER.
'Sure you don't want half a slice?'
I press two minutes on the microwave. As I am microwaving my...porridge, he fries up the three big fat slices of delicious pudding, toasts his delicious big fat slices of bread, butters them with big fat butter, spreads the big fat pudding on the big fat toast and covers them in big fat white pepper.
In the meantime I remove my oats from the microwave and add some more skimmed milk, cold this time. Ooooh. And oh yeah, I stirred it.
We take our respective seats at the table. My mouth is watering, and it has fuck all to do with MY breakfast.
Then the man I share a bathroom with cracks his knuckles and fills his coffee cup. He pulls his plate closer to him and lifts a steaming slab of meat filled carb loaded artery clogging peppery goo to his mouth.
That was the drool from the corner of my mouth, bouncing off the rim of my oats bowl.
Just before he takes a bite he looks at me and says, grinning....
'How's your porridge?'
'Fine.' I say, but in my head I wished gout upon him.
Sigh. October seems so very FAR away, doesn't it?.