THAT TAKES THE BISCUIT
‘That takes the biscuit.’ He said.
What biscuit? I asked. ‘Who’s talking about biscuits? Well I don’t mind if I do. What are they? Custard creams, digestives, hobnobs fruit oatmeal, shortbread?’
Now my mouth is watering. I don’t usually allow myself biscuits. Because I’m always on a diet, although if I’m at a meeting where there are some really good ones, even if I’ve taken my apple, I might persuade myself that it’s ok to have one, or even two and then again perhaps three if there are any left over at the end of the meeting, especially if they are the melt-in-the-mouth shortcake or Foxes or Cadbury’s chocolate-covered ones. Each time I have one though, especially in public, I feel as if they must be inflatable, or rather I should say that with each bite I feel inflated, blown up a little more than my already formidable size. If I dwell on this long enough I can get into a dark depression. After 30-odd years on a diet I seem to be bigger than ever. I also experience a sense of deprivation because I can never allow myself to have what I fully enjoy, the really tasty things in life. I either keep a disciplined watch on everything I eat or I become rebellious.
‘Why can’t I have the things I like, it’s not fair, other people eat things and it doesn’t seem to affect them.’
Like a naughty child who cannot have what she wants?
Perhaps you’d better take them away out of my sight. A more grown up way for me to handle this of course would be for me to say.
‘No thank you, I’m allergic to biscuits.’
There is some truth in this as they make me fat and they make me sick, sick of myself and sick of my metabolism, sick of my inability to keep to one biscuit. So that’s why I am saying.
‘That takes the biscuit.’
‘Please take the biscuits away.’
‘That takes the biscuit.’ He said.
What biscuit? I asked. ‘Who’s talking about biscuits? Well I don’t mind if I do. What are they? Custard creams, digestives, hobnobs fruit oatmeal, shortbread?’
Now my mouth is watering. I don’t usually allow myself biscuits. Because I’m always on a diet, although if I’m at a meeting where there are some really good ones, even if I’ve taken my apple, I might persuade myself that it’s ok to have one, or even two and then again perhaps three if there are any left over at the end of the meeting, especially if they are the melt-in-the-mouth shortcake or Foxes or Cadbury’s chocolate-covered ones. Each time I have one though, especially in public, I feel as if they must be inflatable, or rather I should say that with each bite I feel inflated, blown up a little more than my already formidable size. If I dwell on this long enough I can get into a dark depression. After 30-odd years on a diet I seem to be bigger than ever. I also experience a sense of deprivation because I can never allow myself to have what I fully enjoy, the really tasty things in life. I either keep a disciplined watch on everything I eat or I become rebellious.
‘Why can’t I have the things I like, it’s not fair, other people eat things and it doesn’t seem to affect them.’
Like a naughty child who cannot have what she wants?
Perhaps you’d better take them away out of my sight. A more grown up way for me to handle this of course would be for me to say.
‘No thank you, I’m allergic to biscuits.’
There is some truth in this as they make me fat and they make me sick, sick of myself and sick of my metabolism, sick of my inability to keep to one biscuit. So that’s why I am saying.
‘That takes the biscuit.’
‘Please take the biscuits away.’