Reader, today I gave in to my base instincts and had a BBQ. Yes, I know, everyone's doing it, but that doesn't make it right! It was 25 degrees in the shade, granted, but let's face matters gang: IT'S ONLY APRIL! Easter Sunday hasn't even happened yet! And normally on the Easter egg hunt I'm wrapped in flannel pjs (see previous blog)! This year I might be doing it in hotpants, and lets face it people, nobody needs to see that. I am sadly not Tamara Drew, hotpants do not make me look like a slightly wobbly goddess, they make me look like two large sausages have had a nasty accident with a denim thimble.
And yet still today the BBQ. I got wrapped up in the joys of summer. I flounced around putting bean burgers on the rack (in a way only a poncy veggie can) and Quorn hot dogs in my buns (ha ha, in-your-endo!). And therein lay the problem Reader. I have a slight wheat intolerance. I ignore it much to my advantage for a large chunk of the time, but on occasion it rears its ugly head to remind me that it exists and when I reach 35 it will take over my life to the extent that I have to eat scummy wheat free pasta and eat rice bread (I mean for crying out loud, why even BOTHER?) But for now I bravely carry on shoving buns, ciabatta and pasta down my gullet with only a slight twinge of guilt about what will happen at Weight Watchers. Today was one of the days my slight intolerance decided to pop by. At breakfast, only marmitey toast would stop my morning breakfast pangs. At lunch, an Applewood cheese and sweet chilli sarnie sounded like a great idea. 'One olive bread roll' I thought to myself, 'Can't possibly hurt'. And it didn't. It was delicious in fact. Then, just before dinner (because Dad was taking ages doing man things with the BBQ i.e. Bugger all and I was starving) I snarfled a bit of buttery toast. Still fine. Then dinner arrived at last and I had olive bread as a starter and two burger buns for my bean burger and Quorn hot dogs. And suddenly WHAM! I looked like I'd had an immaculate conception that had been fast forwarded to getting stuck in a manger. Nothing hurt exactly, it was just all stretched to the point of bursting. Like I had self raising flour based triplets in there. My Mum looked at my tummy with what can only be described as a 'been there done that' look (she has been through all of the stages and has now been at the wheat free pasta stage for a good ten years). I had to roll up the stairs to bed. Of course one brilliant thing about this is it's an excuse to go to bed early. And I love going to bed early. I forgive myself for the overindulgence because I know it's only because in a few years I will have to say goodbye to my favourite food for good. But no worries, I'll just replace it with chips. Potato intolerance? I think not.
In other news, I have turned into one giant freckle. Such are the joys of being half Irish in the sun (I couldn't have got my Dad's gypsy skin could I? Not bloody likely.) I hate having facial freckles. You can always tell someone doesn't have them because when you say something like that they go 'awwww, freckles are cuuute though!' No. No you lucky freckle-less person, freckles are only cute if you have an adorable smattering of them across your nose. Not when you look like you've been machine gunned with dirty water. I now have trouble getting served in bars. I look like an 11 year old with breasts. And not in the Sucker Punch way.
Well, I shall leave you on that one Reader
Enjoy the sun and remember to cover up!