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I’m just about coming out of my scone-induced coma.

I don’t know why I bothered thinking about dieting before we went to Devon. Except now I need to think about it even harder than before we went away.  The problem with me is a distinct lack of willpower, common sense and possibly a side-helping of Chubsteristis.

On Saturday morning we walked for miles along a stretch of coastline so stunningly gorgeous and awe-inspringly craggy that it looked just like slabs of fruitcake had been dropped onto a sandy plate.

beach, coast, cornwall

We left nothing but our footprints.

Of course, this meant it was absolutely justified for me to eat a pasty the size of my hand.

Cornish pasty

I ate it ALL.

And when we got home, the milk had gone off, so I simply had to make scones this morning. It’s practically the law, right?  Waste not, want not and all that.

I need to stop thinking, and start doing. Or stop doing, whichever way you want to look at it.

But first, I have a mountain of garlic to climb. Of which, more later…

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