Less than four posts ago I bragged about the modicum of self-restraint I'd shown in not inhaling a litre of high-fat ice-cream while theWife was away. You know the sort of ice-cream; the one litre tubs that remind one of the container part of the water tower that always appears as a place of significance in a teen-angst movie set in small-town mid-western America. And that one litre costs twice as much as a two litre less-fatty option. An option which is, let's all agree, not as tasty as the goodness from the more expensive tub.
theWife was now home from visiting her bestie, the daughter of whom theBoy has declared 'is not my friend!' on account of her being younger than he and not knowing about personal space and the importance of not surprise scratching someone on the neck (1). theWife offered to go to the shops since staples were low. Since I'd been good on not having ice-cream I asked for ice-cream ... but something petite in size. Then if I but had that small amount then in theory I would then be okay.
... Two Coles brand Cornettos and two Weis bars later ...
Clearly that was not a petite amount of ice-cream ... I ate four nights' worth of dessert in a half-hour sitting. And thus the blossoming within has begun!
Sigh. Apologies to Angry Anderson for going all Mission Accomplished and declaring invulnerability to the secret siren song that is the ice-cream binge.
(cue forlorn version of 'We can't be beaten' chorus) Do do-do, clearly beaten etc.
(1) No fail on her there; all kids take time on understanding about how to physically interact with others. And they regress, or, if distressed, often lash out. theBoy often runs over to me to whack at me when I've shitted him once too often. In his defence though I am extremely annoying, mainly because I love teasing him so much. But it's never mean in spirit. He's my Chooky!