The day of chocolate inhaling is nearly over, and I have had one piece of toblerone all day. I've figured out the ultimate lose weight quick method: shower dieter with junk food, and dieter will gravitate without effort to celery and carrot sticks without so much as unwrapping a single sweet.
Not that I am dieting per se. In fact, I can proudly say I have never dieted in my entire life... and this is not due to lack of trying, it is due to lack of willpower. Luckily, I recognized this genetic defect in my teens, and stopped trying altogether, so forgoing years of hunger pangs and guilt over stolen slices of chocolate cake.
Not that I am dieting per se. In fact, I can proudly say I have never dieted in my entire life... and this is not due to lack of trying, it is due to lack of willpower. Luckily, I recognized this genetic defect in my teens, and stopped trying altogether, so forgoing years of hunger pangs and guilt over stolen slices of chocolate cake.
We started off our Easter weekend as young twenty somethings should - we went out clubbing and got wrecked. Our venue of choice this Thursday night was The Egg (Easter at the Egg, you see?), for... you guessed it... an easter party. The Egg is close to King's Cross station. Well, close is an understatement - it is actually 4 bus stops away from the station, but there is no closer tube station. As has become the norm lately, I agonized over what to wear for 45 minutes beforehand. For those who have seen my cupboard, you will know I do not have a shortage of clothes. Quite the opposite, if we're to be truthful here. I have so many clothes that fitting them in our piddly little cupboard and measly chest of drawers is something not even the most diligent of packers could do, hence our four, yes four, 3-drawer storage units that are piled up around our bedroom making us look like refugees. I'm in a crisis about this actually - there is no more space in our room for more storage units (under the bed and on top of the cupboard were taken long ago), and still I have trouble stuffing my clothes into arb hidey holes (which makes for endless fun games of hide and seek when searching for my black and blue corset that I just have to wear tonight). What I shall do when the time comes to buy new summer clothes, I just don't know. I'm sure you understand that not buying new summer clothes simply isn't an option.
Finally, I settled on black - slimming - and very high heels - leg lengthening - and off we went. One of the things that most annoys me about clubs anywhere is their attempts to make the party look attractive to potential punters. Not definite punters, like ourselves, but people making their way into London, trying to decide which haunt to pick for the own brand of delinquency. It's not the fact that they do this, but HOW they do this that annoys me. They reflect the opening time on their flyers as being, say, 10pm. So you arrive at 11pm, expecting to be able to go in immediately, but oh no! Instead, you are forced to stand in a queue for up to an hour while bouncers let one person in every 5 minutes and stand around practically imploding with importance the rest of the time (yeah mate, I thought A-levels were a waste of time, so I dropped out of school at 12 and now I have this sick job searching people for drugs every night, innit?). And passersby are apparently supposed to gather from this melee that the party inside is SO awesome, the whole of London is trying to get in, and thus be drawn over like moths to flames. Me, I'd just walk straight past and look for a place where the queue moves faster than the overland during rush hour.
We got in eventually, and ended up having a really great night. Clubland never ceases to amuse me - some of the planet's biggest freaks and freakshows frequent these places. My personal favourite of the night occurred in the tented chill out area. We'd sat down for a break from dancing and along comes this girl, clearly high on something other than life. She didn't so much approach as moonwalk over to us. She mumbled something unintelligible, and plonked herself down on the tiny space available on the end of our couch, but, instead of using her centre of gravity to balance herself upright, she just kept on going backwards, and ended up ass over feet on the other side. What was even funnier was that when she got up, she looked completely unaware that anything untoward had happened, and promptly sat down.... and did it again! Even the bouncer was having a chuckle.
Easter weekends are for chilling out, that's what we decided at the beginning of this one. Either that, or you have to go all out and go away somewhere, which wasn't on the menu due to the Turkey trip at the beginning of May. This morning we had a bumper brunch with Mello and OJ - a big English fry-up with all trimmings. After that it was time for coffee and the easter egg exchange, and I have felt strangely nauseous at the thought of chocolate ever since, despite a decent haul that should see me through any major upsets in the near future (everyone else leaving for Turkey, missing my boyfriend's birthday, general moaning about my inadequate life, etc etc). I have thought about giving one or two of my eggs away to bums at the station, but despite the fact that I don't want to eat them, a horrible (and very unflattering, I suspect) scrooge-like jealousy washes over me at the thought of anyone else in possession of them. Even the possibility of getting fat doesn't put me off... I just want them where I can see them, even if they don't get eaten. Am I just a nasty person, or a sensible one who realises looking can be as satisfying as having? Either I have issues, or I should be writing a self-help book for women on virtual fulfilment.
Finally, I settled on black - slimming - and very high heels - leg lengthening - and off we went. One of the things that most annoys me about clubs anywhere is their attempts to make the party look attractive to potential punters. Not definite punters, like ourselves, but people making their way into London, trying to decide which haunt to pick for the own brand of delinquency. It's not the fact that they do this, but HOW they do this that annoys me. They reflect the opening time on their flyers as being, say, 10pm. So you arrive at 11pm, expecting to be able to go in immediately, but oh no! Instead, you are forced to stand in a queue for up to an hour while bouncers let one person in every 5 minutes and stand around practically imploding with importance the rest of the time (yeah mate, I thought A-levels were a waste of time, so I dropped out of school at 12 and now I have this sick job searching people for drugs every night, innit?). And passersby are apparently supposed to gather from this melee that the party inside is SO awesome, the whole of London is trying to get in, and thus be drawn over like moths to flames. Me, I'd just walk straight past and look for a place where the queue moves faster than the overland during rush hour.
We got in eventually, and ended up having a really great night. Clubland never ceases to amuse me - some of the planet's biggest freaks and freakshows frequent these places. My personal favourite of the night occurred in the tented chill out area. We'd sat down for a break from dancing and along comes this girl, clearly high on something other than life. She didn't so much approach as moonwalk over to us. She mumbled something unintelligible, and plonked herself down on the tiny space available on the end of our couch, but, instead of using her centre of gravity to balance herself upright, she just kept on going backwards, and ended up ass over feet on the other side. What was even funnier was that when she got up, she looked completely unaware that anything untoward had happened, and promptly sat down.... and did it again! Even the bouncer was having a chuckle.
Easter weekends are for chilling out, that's what we decided at the beginning of this one. Either that, or you have to go all out and go away somewhere, which wasn't on the menu due to the Turkey trip at the beginning of May. This morning we had a bumper brunch with Mello and OJ - a big English fry-up with all trimmings. After that it was time for coffee and the easter egg exchange, and I have felt strangely nauseous at the thought of chocolate ever since, despite a decent haul that should see me through any major upsets in the near future (everyone else leaving for Turkey, missing my boyfriend's birthday, general moaning about my inadequate life, etc etc). I have thought about giving one or two of my eggs away to bums at the station, but despite the fact that I don't want to eat them, a horrible (and very unflattering, I suspect) scrooge-like jealousy washes over me at the thought of anyone else in possession of them. Even the possibility of getting fat doesn't put me off... I just want them where I can see them, even if they don't get eaten. Am I just a nasty person, or a sensible one who realises looking can be as satisfying as having? Either I have issues, or I should be writing a self-help book for women on virtual fulfilment.
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