That Sweet Snack Siren Call

Just one cookie? Just another slither of the chocolate cake? Just one more donut? And before you know it, it’s spiraled out of control, escalated into just another pizza,maybe one more pie. Just another jug of custard…

Omnomnom… can you hear it? Can anyone else hear that cake begging me to eat it?

We’ve all been there. It’s easy to do, those office boffins out there in your swivel chairs, we all know you dunk whole packets of biscuits into your teas and coffees. And those Netflix nutters under the covers, laptop balanced precariously on-board your misshapen, duvet-warped body – we can see the crumbs on your keyboard, we see the ‘Just Eat’ tab open and we can smell the prawn cracker bits in your hair.

So why do we let food do this to us? Why do we turn into greasy-faced, pie-eyed, foul-breathed servants to that sweet snack siren song?

This chocolate on my face? It’s not acceptable. But it’s a common occurrence…

I know, a lot of it points to boredom. There ain’t nothing more sure to have you scoffing than a bit of data input, a list of long emails to write or an ad break full of pretentious celebrities running around Paris rooftop parties spraying perfume. But why, when the good bit’s coming up – the murderer is just about to be revealed, the oxygen tank blew a hole in the side of the rocket, the Red Wedding just killed off my favourite characters – why does the back of my mind start tugging me towards the kitchen? Because chocolate melting on my tongue is an irresistible possibility, because of those fake happy chemicals that convince me this is worth that extra run I’ll now have to suffer next week.

I’ve decided – it’s time for an intervention. Time to sit those manipulative baked goods down and show them who’s boss. I’m going to taunt them with their carrot stick replacements, my rice cake substitutes. Not because I’m getting fat, not because my teeth are rotting or my bank account is drying up, but purely because I am a control freak. No longer will I be a servant to that creamy butter icing, no longer will I scoop the leftovers straight from the mixing bowl and lick that sugary paradise off my finger, catching the last stray coatings on my teeth with my tongue… I forget where I was going with this…

Oh yes. The big stand off. Pastries, biscuits, confectionery, crisps – I salute you all on your efforts, and I mean this, REALLY well played. But I’m standing up to your bullying ways. No more munching when I could be paying attention, following Norman Bates into the bathroom for that famous shower stabbing or doing those essential yoga stretches during the ads. I could even save that twenty minutes a day spent scraping out the Digestive crumbs from between the laptop keys. I could get things DONE.

So there. It’s that simple. It’s over. We had a good run but now grab your things, your foil coats and your plastic shawls and get the hell out of my cupboard.