Porridge oats allowed, coco pops most definitely not! Liz Frost resorts to enlisting the neighbours’ dog in her battle against festive temptations
Having spent the last month with my parents I have well and truly celebrated Christmas. It all started with a mince pie. “Should we really be eating this?” I asked my tea-wielding parents. “Well, it is Christmas…” both replied in unison, even though technically it was still November. Before long came the chocolate brazils and the Quality Street, then the removal of the shiny wrappers entombing the wonderment that is Ferrero Rocher. ‘I may as well give up’ I thought glumly eyeing the slight overhang that threatened to leak over my jeans.
So, with glee and reckless abandon we embraced the festive season and all that came with it. By December 1st (which coincidentally saw the opening of my first chocolate advent window) I was really getting into the swing of things. By Christmas day I’d lost all control.
It got me thinking. If only the festive vices could be policed in some way. Like the drink driving laws, only for mince pies. When faced with a festive occasion they could lie in wait in the coat cupboard and jump out at you as you reach for the fifth mince pie and breathalyse you with a special mince-pie detecting machine. Our prisons would be overflowing, but at least we’d all be thin.
With this in mind, I enlisted the help of my seven-year-old nephew. “Don’t eat that,” he’d say as I raised a sugary treat to my mouth. He took the job very seriously, sneaking up on me as I made my breakfast and policing my sugar intake. Porridge oats, allowed. Coco pops, not allowed. He’d even started wearing a special hat. But unfortunately visions of McCauly Kulkin in Home Alone popped into my mind and it only made me more determined. When he followed me into the bathroom to check on my toothpaste usage I duly sacked him and enlisted the help of the neighbours’ dog, Sam.
If I ate the bad stuff in front of Sam, he’d look at me with big brown eyes and make me feel bad, so I’d have to give it to him instead. His big brown eyes and to be fair, his unsavoury odour, really helped.
Each time I felt the need for a slice of stollen, or a chocolate santa I’d call on Sam and he’d sit there drooling. He picked up his new job really quickly, sometimes appearing before I’d even realised I was hungry. Sam was being well fed. My neighbours were happy we’d bonded. I was avoiding my vice. Everyone was happy.
It was all going really well until he threw up in the garden and I had to pretend it was me. All out of pie-dodging schemes, I gave in and enjoyed the festive season with Gusto, vowing to be healthy the minute I left. As I boarded the train I felt thinner already, I was sad to say goodbye to my folks, but relieved for my waistline.
“We’ve packed the rest of the mince pies and Christmas cake for you!” my dad yelled as the train pulled away.
Well, I suppose that’s what new year’s resolutions are for…
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!
