In an attempt to maintain my racing snake figure, Charlotte has decreed that I should change my intake from less of the bad stuff to comestibles of more nutritional value. And move more.
Chocolate, being a plant and, by default, of vegetable origin, it somehow doesn’t count as one of my five a day and neither apparently do juices pressed and fermented from a hop, grape or grain derivative, count either. Beer, wine and spirits are supposedly therefore, off the menu.
Instead, I am to make do with nutritional supplements, salads and other such items of a healthy nature.
Whaaaat? You know how much I love cake! So does my waistline! Gone are the days where I’d wait at the school gate for the food parcel from home to arrive, containing a wonderful fruit cake – I never used to suffer from weight gain after scoffing one of those beauties!
But as age wearies and the years condemn, my waistline needs to be brought under control. I pledge to move more and, to this end, have seriously been placing my best foot forward in an attempt to achieve the goal, the prize, the fitting back into the clothes that lay in my drawers like long-forgotten friends from the past. It’s my left foot that’s my best one by the way in case you were wondering. My right foot, being attached to my lower right leg which is attached to my right knee, have all suffered somewhat since ‘that skiing accident’ in Morzine, France. Now there’s nothing right about it, but as luck would have it, as humans, we have been provided mostly with two of everything, so in this case, the left one will have to step up to the plate in the right’s absence. Left foot first.
Proceeding on to the car, to drive to work – that’s got to be at least fifty steps from the house in the right direction. Then from the car park to my desk – another fifty! Excellente, things are looking up! By 0800 hours I’ve managed 100 steps. Not quite the Proclaimers 500, but well on the way. By lunchtime, I’ve managed another 200 steps totalling a massive three hundred! That was one trip to the toilet and one trip to the kitchen to mix up some gruel for my mid-morning snack. Which, before you all say I shouldn’t, I’m allowed. Charlotte said so.
Gruel. Porridge. Sticky grey stodge. Lines the stomach well, apparently and is very good for you. Again, I’ll be the judge of that! I’ve mixed it up with a little milk. Not your ordinary cow’s milk though. None of that lactose, teat fluid, stuff. Instead, I’ve been provided with a carton of Nut Milk. Almond Nut Milk to be precise. This looks a little grey too. It does nothing for the gruel either. Two minutes later, the microwave pings and the mix is ready. Yummy. I briefly look at the milk carton and register that it is best before February 2, 2020.
Best before February 2.
It’s the summer solstice tomorrow. Longest day, shortest night. Druids at Stonehenge. Watching the sunrise. All that stuff.
I perform the manly sniff test. We’ve all done it. Give it a sniff, see if you recoil in horror. No? Then it must be okay. Surely.
There’s also the visual test. Are there any lumps? Give it a good shake. Has it turned into butter or cheese, or something worse? No? Then again, it must be okay…I think.
What is this product? Almond Nut Milk. Any other milk by now would have been lumpy and smelly, but here this carton stands the test of time, to prove that not all milk is the same. It smells and tastes the same as when I opened the carton before Christmas last year, which just so happened to be the previous time I thought I needed to lose a few inches. And now, six or seven months later, it is still edible. Or drinkable. If you like to drink Almond Nut Milk, that is.
I ask Charlotte who, in our household, is the fount of all knowledge where comestibles are concerned, asking her, how long does nut milk last before going off?
Charlotte looks at me.
“You want me to taste your nut milk”.
It’s not even a question. She states it with that look she gives when you know you’re going to pay heavily for whatever her answer is.
From my bath-chair, while I convalesce, I can assure you that my nut milk is free-flowing and quite liberal in its ability to reach every nook and cranny, every crevice known to a man’s personage.
I suppose having your jaw wired and eating through a straw is one way of losing weight.
Carry on Regardless!