It’s getting colder and our bodies are craving more carbs and… chocolate. Our weekly columnist, Liz Frost, confesses all
My name is Liz, and I’m a Chocoholic.
Having spent most of last Christmas with a tin of Quality Street strapped to my side; most of Easter chasing the chocolate-bearing bunny and countless other chocolaty moments in between, I finally looked at my thighs and said “Enough’s enough.”
So this morning, with renewed vigour and the season of good will and Yule Logs approaching, I awoke early and prepared myself for my new chocolate-free life. I removed all traces of evil from the fridge and consigned them to the bin (my only surviving Lindor bunny included, although I won’t say I didn’t shed a tiny tear as his little collar bell tinkled into the trash).
From now on I would be a clean-living lithe-legged lady, I decided. Visions of slinky party dresses danced in front of my eyes. I’d simply cut out ‘the brown stuff’ and redemption would be mine… or so I thought.
I set off to work – taking a detour to avoid the newsagent – and by the time I got to my desk I was feeling quite pleased with myself. “I can smell the flowers again!” I told my desk companion, whilst biting into a Granny Smith. Was it my imagination, or was my skirt a little looser already?
Then my eyes fell upon a purple box on the side. “What are those?” I said. (Apparently they were some kind of chocolate selection Michelle had brought back from her travels.) I eyed them suspiciously and shifted nervously in my seat.
They told me the hardest thing would be admitting I had a problem. That living in denial was all that was standing between me and clean living. It was all very well standing up and declaring my addiction, but it seemed for me, the hardest part by far would be resisting my vice with its smooth velvety touch and melt-in-the mouth texture.
Smokers had patches to help them quit, drug addicts had The Priory, alcoholics had their AA meetings. There had to be something to help me with my addiction. The local chemist just looked back at my blankly, and alas, all Boots could do was hook me up with a ‘Shapers’ Turkish Delight.
By four o’clock the whole office had picked at the purple box on their way past and all that remained was a couple of orange creams, even those were too much to resist. I sneaked a sideways glance over my shoulder before popping one into my mouth. Heaven.
Ok, so I’d fallen off the wagon, but tomorrow was another day wasn’t it?
Liz Frost is a freelance writer specialising in features for women's magazines. She writes for Company, Cosmopolitan, Glamour, Zest, B and Bliss. Email her at liz_frost@yahoo.co.uk, even if it's just to say hello!
