Death of a Diet

We all knew it was bound to happen sooner or later, but I was hoping I could last at least one day without the old ‘diet and exercise’ chestnut being smashed to bits by the champion conker of a visit with the in-laws. That’s right, I’m sitting at my keyboard chasing down a hefty wedge of custard fruit flan with Maltesers as numerous as the droppings of The Devil’s own hell-goat, by which these chocolate balls of guilty pleasure were surely inspired.

I’d been so restrained today, forgoing my usual breakfast of chocolate (crammed in quickly before the children, eating their do-as-I-say-not-as-I-do healthy breakfasts, see) in favour of cereal, and piously ignoring the sweet treats in our fridge and pantry, relics of our year-end gorging. Then the hour grew late, all hope of reprieve was lost, and I reluctantly submitted myself to an evening of social and culinary cross-bearing.

I won’t go into the details of tonight’s in-laws experience, as I fear unleashing a cataclysm of ranting which could obliterate Blogger Beta entirely (tempting as that prospect is, I’ve put too much effort into tinkering with my ‘new, improved’ template which, unsurprisingly, is clunkier and uglier than the old one, to be bothered sailing around looking for the Mt. Sinai of blog hosts), but suffice it to say I know how the guy in The Scream feels.

Fortunately, I’d had a late lunch and so did not have to choose between satiety and protecting my taste-buds from a prolonged onslaught defying my previously-held belief that all mums of that generation are good cooks. Unfortunately, the dynamics of Mr. Lonie’s family made it impossible for me to politely refuse dessert despite my resolution, so I grimly prepared myself to spoon down a large slice of the home-made comestible styling itself as baked cheesecake.

The force of will required to refrain from gagging was enormous; it tasted like it was made of Weeties and yoghurt.

“I made the base from Weet-Bix,” Mr. Lonie’s mother disclosed at this point, while I gamely tried to disguise my grimace of disgust. “It’s not a very sweet cheesecake, is it?”

There it was. The final blow to my fledgling resolution. “I strayed from my diet for this?” I thought irritatedly. “Damn it if I’m going to be hanged for this lamb – I’m going for the whole damn sheep!”

And so I did. And here I am. Munching on Maltesers.