Just Keep Eating the Biscuits

Things I have discovered today:

Coca Cola Life is not very nice. It purports to be better for you than Diet Coke or regular full fat Coke. It tries to do this by having less sugar in than regular Coke, and also by replacing some of those sugars with more exciting ‘healthier’ sugars than things like aspartame etc, which is in Diet Coke. I thought this might be wonderful. Even though I know I’m not supposed to like full fat Coke, I do. I also hate diet Coke. Coca Cola Life however, has all the horrible taste of Diet Coke and none of the illicit thrill of drinking full fat Coke. Gah.

A Jammy Dodger can in no way stand up in comparison to a jam and cream sandwich biscuit. It is the cream that makes the biscuit work. Any attempts to persuade me otherwise will fall on deaf ears. I have tested this until the wheels fall off, and I remain firmly in the jam and cream sandwich corner. Funny Faces are my favourite and my best, but Aldi do an acceptable substitute for 49p a packet. Huzzah.

It is not good to subject me to a day of paperwork when the office is very near to the kitchen, as you can see from the above two points.

I am very good at procrastinating. This has led me to read various news articles that have popped into my awareness thanks to the suggestive nature of social media and my own susceptibility to being side tracked when faced with boring things to do. I now know even more things that I never really needed to know in the first place and which will mean I will have to keep going to pub quizzes in order to empty my brain on a regular basis.

I find, after reading many of these news articles that I am still furious about trolling comments in various media about people’s weight. I am genuinely livid about this stuff. When has your ability to deny yourself chips ever been a virtuous thing? When has your waistline ever been commensurate with your skill set? I conclude from this that there must be a lot of jealous people out there, with presumably admirable waist sizes, who are still waiting to be discovered by Spielberg and can only think he can’t see them because they’re hidden by the fatter person in front, and not because they’re talentless half wits with venom for blood.

My husband is doing tax returns. He is way more diligent than me. He has left the office, which I have sprayed with biscuit crumbs, empty Coke bottles and scrunched up pieces of paper, to go and get some work done in the garden where only Derek and the squirrels will distract him. I was going to suggest that we run away and eat buns and drink tea, but on a day where he is calculating how much money we will be forced to give to the government, and rending his hair, I decided I would keep a low profile.

I may have to go back to bed to do this. It turns out that even when I am being quiet, I am not very quiet. I am clearly like a drunken person being quiet. i.e. going about the house with a lump hammer, pounding on the floor and walls and screaming ‘SHUSH!’ before falling downstairs in a giggling heap.

I shall have another biscuit.

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