I am wandering through a decimated, post-apocalyptic wasteland, fighting for survival.
This land is my kitchen, that's right, my wife and I have agreed to a suicide pact, more conventionally known as a "diet".
This one is popular with her friends on Facebook apparently and has been getting all the usual rave reviews "You know so and so did it? She lost 15 stone in a week! She was only 13 stone to begin with!". I can't help but feel I'm missing a trick not going into the diet business, I could charge big fees and send hand written cards simply reading "Contract the Ebola Virus!" or "Lop off a Limb!" I bet that's not even illegal I mean obviously I wouldn't actually send the Ebola Virus or hacksaws in a jiffy bag, postage prices are ridiculous nowadays.
Anyway, my wife and I are at "Stage One" we can't eat carbs. No carbs!? I assume Stage Three is rigor mortis, I wonder how long it will be before I am reduced to some kind of carb zombie "Caaaaaaaarbs! Caaaaaaaarrbs!" with my wife pulling me away from chewing raw potatoes in the supermarket.
It hasn't always been like this, growing up I'd always been tall and skinny. I know to see me now, a life-sized Mr.Greedy (but wearing clothes - usually), you wouldn't believe it but I used to wish I could put on some weight. My wishes have become reality but not in the Disney way, in the evil, Eastenders way.
My body had led me to believe that my waistline was invincible, that a few crunches here and there and I could fill my face with McDonald's and cakes to my heart's content (well, not my heart's content obviously, I'm sure my heart would much prefer I steer clear of clogging it up with sweet, delicious fat), as time wore on I even started regularly working out, eating healthy, reading men's health mags and generally getting a bit buff. Then I met my lovely wife and my metabolism met it's nemesis. Happiness. The combination of laziness and being content with life has degraded me from a lean machine to a P reg., clapped out people carrier.
At work I'm sat at a desk split into a quadrant, four people facing the middle, directly opposite me is a large colour printer, it doesn't talk much, to my left is a level-headed, nice bloke, the type you'd expect would ask a stranger if his car needed a push if he saw them struggling. On my right is harsher, brash bloke. I generally wouldn't abide such a character but he is competent and I've found that is a surprisingly rare commodity so I can respect that. "Lefty" just offered me a McVities chocolate biscuit to go with my coffee (black with one sugar for diet purposes) I declined, unknown to him my simple "no, thanks" was the result of a near cataclysmic internal battle:
Little Devil Adam: Are you insane!? It's not JUST a chocolate biscuit, it's McVities!
Little Angel Adam: I'm pretty sure that's carbs and even if not....
Little Devil Adam: Carbs shmarbs! Get dipping, warm, wet biscuit, melted chocolatey goodness....
*Little Angel Adam knocks out Little Devil Adam with a sledgehammer and gives me a threatening look as his shoulders heave up and down with the ragged breath of effort*
I wonder if when he twisted the packet closed Lefty noticed the flash of pain and longing behind my eyes, this is definitely what it feels like when doves cry, well, when they're hungry anyway.
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