Nonetheless, it's a question I've considered posing several times in the last week or so; despite knowing full well that asking it would fall somewhere between utterly pointless and potentially destructive. Regardless of the response, it wouldn't change the (thigh-tastic) reality, and it'd also put whichever poor soul I decided to ask in the awkward position of either:
1. Being brutally honest; or
2. Tactfully attempting to sugar-coat their response. In which case, I'd probably try to eat it.
Apt as it would be to allow my hippo-sized self to wallow in self-pity (and digestive biscuit crumbs), I've decided to take the more pragmatic approach of STEPPING AWAY FROM THE BISCUIT TIN. And then stepping away some more, until I've walked as many steps as The Proclaimers. That ought to do it.
I'm also deeply conscious that any lamenting on my part would be rather hard for you all to swallow, and certainly much harder than I found it to swallow the baked goods, burgers, and assorted puddings I've shared on here recently... I'll just label the last few weeks as a science experiment where I used my own hips to prove how gluttony works. You're welcome, Science.
I've written about my relationship with baked goods (AKA the true Love Of My Life) on here before, and I know I'll be wriggling back into my skinny jeans soon enough if I use the same tact as before (eat less, move more). However, this time I'm also equipped with some FABULOUS healthy-living "tips" from a book I found in the pub on Sunday. Where I also ate my own (increased) weight in roast potatoes - but let's not dwell on that part...
Judging by the cover, the practical way to keep fit is to either become a pirate or live in a lighthouse. Although I guess all those stairs probably would help. But the illustrated guidelines inside were even better...
Some sound advice about carbs there. Dr Aitkins would be proud.
If this one's true, I should investigate joining Reese's Peanut Butter Cups Anonymous.
I particularly liked that one, because it reminded me of this sign I saw at London Zoo, which made me want to yell "I'm sick of you lot treating us like pieces of meat!" into the tiger enclosure.
I mean, if we don't stop that kind of behaviour early, we'll only have ourselves to blame when there's a breakout of tiger-whistling on building sites next year...
P.S. The book didn't just nail the diet dilemma; it also contained some very useful tips on parenting, including an uncanny understanding of the teenage psyche... Ahem.