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