Mastergreed

Note to self: if trying to lose weight, or at least maintain current 'svelte' form, it is advisable not to a) eat dinner and then, approximately half an hour later, b) begin watching Masterchef.

Yesterday I got home, did yoga, felt unattractively pleased with myself, wolfed down a celebratory funsize Mars bar while heating a tin of soup and then ate that with a 'snack pack' of five savoury oatcakes, liberally spread with houmous, which I had realised that I had to eat urgently as it was nearing (but not at) its use-by date. Unfortunately, there was a little more houmous than oatcake surface area, so I cleaned out the pot with my soup spoon. I then ate another two funsize Mars bars for pudding. Then I realised I was quite cold, so I had a bath, and then started to watch Masterchef. The instant that they started frying their scallops, slicing their chorizo and roasting their seabass, my stomach sent me an urgent SOS, suggesting that I hadn't eaten for around six days. After approximately two minutes, I caved in and had another snack pack of oatcakes. Then it was 'The Pressure Test', where the three remaining contestants had to cook in a lunchtime service at a Marylebone restaurant. The sight of the duck breast salad sent me back to the bag of Mars bars, and I think two more were consumed, although this may be an optimistic understatement. I realised urgent measures were needed, so I decided to go on the offensive and eat an After Eight. The mintiness contained therein is usually enough to trick my brain into thinking I've brushed my teeth, thus telling my digestive system that no more food is coming its way for some time. But not tonight. I was soon surrounded by small, square, black wrappers and lay fairly still, hating myself, until the start of The Final Test, when the fish cakes and pork belly that were plated up sent me craving savoury. I returned to the kitchen once more, desperately searching for something salty that would take away the pain. After a few seconds, my only option became clear, and moments later, I was back on the sofa, eating anchovies out of the tin. Of course, this would have been an unacceptable end to my food from a palate perspective, so I washed it all down with a raspberry ice lolly. And, while this was going on, I somehow managed to comfort myself that my evening's consumption hadn't been too bad as I'd avoided wheat and booze. Honestly. With manipulation skills like that, it's a wonder I haven't been recruited by the government.