Wednesday, 19 December 2012
Who Ate all the Mince Pies?
I keep eating the Christmas snacks.
Then replacing them.
Then eating them again.
Ritz, Dry Roasted, Matchmakers. Working up the echelons of a festive Rocher pyramid, to the ultimate party favourite - Pringles.
It’s been going on since November.
“That’s Christmas sorted,” I crowed, scoffing at all the suckers who would be running around on December 24.
The Christmas shop heralds great excitement in our household, as I come bearing lavish goodies.
Our cupboards are usually sparse and the kids think it's a treat when we splurge on a multipack of Quavers or Chocolate Animals. So imagine their delight when not one, but two pipes, of Pringles arrive?
It’s like Christmas.
Their little faces pressed up against the supplies in the Coshida emblazoned cardboard box from Lidl, as I steer them away from the precious things.
“Why don’t you have one of those wafer thin own brand Rich Tea biscuits, Poor Cuppa, instead?” I suggest.
But it’s double standards. As they sleep, I delve in for just a bite or a nibble.
Soon it’s woman vs. food. A foot long Yorkie, a plastic Christmas tree filled with Twiglets, a keg of mulled wine. Can she do it?
My fatted calves are slumped beside an empty box, with chocolate smeared around my mouth, like a contestant on The Biggest Loser.
I’m like Dan Aykroyd’s bad Santa in Trading Places, gorging on party food and booze and shoving a whole salmon down his suit. Only I’m a vegetarian and I don‘t have any facial hair, yet.
Nothing is sacred. I move on to presents.
Nan’s biscuits, the home-made Christmas cake, my aunt gave us, kid’s selection boxes, all ripped open.
Sorry teacher, but your pressie is a now a tin full of wrappers and strawberry creams. Thank-you very much.
Not only is it expensive, but it‘s greedy. It’s also playing havoc with my waistline. I’ll have to buy some of those trousers/lounge pants that look like pyjamas. Sod it, I will simply wear my PJS and hope I don‘t get barred from Tesco.
Replenishing supplies is like Groundhog day.
While Bill Murray may have mastered the piano, I’ve barely learnt to operate the self service checkout, without either being asked if I am old enough to buy booze, or triggering a repetitive alarm that alerts the whole store that there is an unexpected item in the bagging area.
Yeh, it’s called a re-usable shopper, as I reassure a spotty security guard that I haven‘t got a load of Semtex stashed underneath the After Eights.
I need to buy some cartoon style combination locks or hide the food in garage, on top of the ancient exercise bike that measures in hectares.
Or go last minute shopping at midnight on Christmas Eve. Emptying shelves of catering sized portions, like I‘m preparing for a nuclear winter.
As a child, I thought that Where the Wind Blows was the sequel to The Snowman.
"Look how Briggs captures the magic, with those snow flakes," I thought, as the radioactive cinders danced bleakly across the screen.
I’ll stick to the Polar Express this year.
Christmas is coming and I am getting fat. My wallet is getting thinner and the supermarkets are getting richer. People are starving, and we are feasting like kings.
Hopefully, I’ll be all Pringled out by next week. But I can’t stop, because I will actually pop.
Dammit, who’s scoffed all the purple Quality Streets?