There Ain't No Devil, It's Just God When He's Drunk

I had a horrible revelation the other night- one that was so horrible it threw me and Scottie into a full on laugh attack because it was either laugh or cry.

For the past three nights I have been having a bowl of my home made (and freaking delicious!) Thai butternut squash soup for dinner. Pretty much just that. I would try to have a big breakfast of either an egg and toast or beans on toast (holy crap, how I've gone native), then a sandwich and small soup or yoghurt for lunch, and then soup for tea. Eat like a king, a prince, a pauper, right?

Now normally I don't care that much about weight and am definitely not one of those girls who starves themselves on diets- eat healthy and be happy is my motto. But that being said, the UK has caused me to expand. Most of it (any by most I mean all) I blame on my 3 months of dissertation writing- a period of me never leaving the house, save to occasionally venture to the library, and of constantly sitting on my ass, literally ALL DAY, writing, reading, and pretending that I was being a serious scholar while facebook lurked seductively in the back. While the effort ended up paying off scholastically (I got a DISTINCTION!!), my bum, tum and thighs paid a dear price. Now I'm trying to get things back to they way they were, but with me coming home exhausted and ready for bed by 6pm, my only form of exercise is the 10 minute walk to the bus stop and back each day. So altering eating habits it is. How does this relate to my horrifying revelation?

Picture this. The sad sight of a woman laying in bed, resting her head on her 5 extra chins, her feet completely out of sight somewhere below the slowly laboured rise and fall of an stomach slightly smaller than Jupiter's second moon. 'Brahgh...feed me!' it roars, and soon, a lithe, elegant, skinny figure appears by her side with a plate of sausage rolls. But the gelatinous mess of skin folds on the bed lacks even the strength to convey the greasy rolls off the plate and into the wide, gaping cavern, already wet and dribbling with excess saliva. So the thin man does all the work and gently feeds the beast like a caring zoo keeper nursing a hippo back to health.

And that is essentially what happened last night. I had my bowl of soup at 5 and by 9 was in bed and ready to sleep...except that I had been in bed reading for about an hour and felt slightly peckish. Scottie, who is 6'1 and weights LESS than me, was chomping down on TESCO mini sausage rolls. But it was sooo cold last night, and I was so warm and tired in bed, I asked if he could just give me one (they're only two bites big anyway). So he came through and fed me like a daddy bird to a chick (minus the pre-mastication/regurgitation) and I had a flash of me as Jabba the Hut being fed to death.

Not pretty. If only I could find me a tennis partner again... :(