The Promise

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Between pancakes, BRIT nominations, London Fashion Week and Valentine’s Day, February is arguably that little bit better than bleak and frosty January.

But for those of us raised in a reasonably religious household, February also ushers in the start of all things Easter, beginning with lent. And for me, this means one thing only: giving up baguettes, thickly sliced loaves and anything by the dozen, all for forty days and forty nights.

Now I know that most of you will try and remain chaste from chocolate, or even make the effort to avoid sugar altogether. You might even be contemplating going t-total or surviving without caffeine, but I personally need to take my annual break from my long-term boyfriend: Bread. Although he rises right on cue when things get hot, he’s also not very good for me. He makes my thighs expand and my tummy bloat, he makes me eat too much butter and cheese and he can’t resist getting messy when it comes to Balsamic Vinegar. He is, sadly enough, my guilty pleasure. And it’s at this point that I can’t possibly feel anymore Irish.

When it comes to my lentern promises, I will be the first to admit that I am selfish in my yearly abstinence. The same as every year, by Easter Sunday, just in time for my birthday, I simply wish to be a few pounds lighter. It has nothing to do with Jesus, God or any of his disciples. No, as per usual, it oozes selfishness, but my promise allows me to feel a little sense of achievement as I settle down on Easter morning to some peanut butter on toast. And as I push my chocolate eggs to one side on that day of rest, I will, without fail, swear that I didn’t even miss toast that much as I gobble down my fifth slice. So even if motivated by selfish reasons give something up or do something good everyday for the duration of lent. You’re guaranteed to feel something, even if it is just a looser waistline.

So although Josh Hartnett did endure one of the most challenging of challenges, I think I rise to it with my break from bread, although to be honest I’d much rather part with a penis than a Panini any day of the week.

And unlike a man, after we’ve taken a break from each other for over a month, he won’t ask questions when I make like a toaster and whisper “I want you inside me”. Bread will softly reply, “That’s hot.” And hop right in.

That’s love for you.

Happy Pancake Day everyone!

The Chip Buttie

large (6)Is it possible that the west country is even more stuck in the dark ages than I’d first anticipated?

I’ve been at university now for almost three years and have been happily ignorant to the fact that people did not love something as close to my heart as the age old ‘chip buttie’.

I now feel even more like an outsider in this tiny town.

On Friday, I took a stroll to the local fish & chip shop and ordered a large (of course) portion of chips to take away. I brought it home and began to prepare only the best snack ever. I got out two slices of thick, white bread, slathered on some butter, wacked some chips on and covered them in tomato ketchup. Normal, right? My housemate looked at me as if I were an alien. “You’re eating chips in bread?!?!” I was so taken aback I dropped the beloved sandwich and questioned what was wrong with something I deemed to be a typically English snack. Apparently carbs, wrapped in carbs, is weird.

I mean yes, it is a guilty pleasure but in no way am I ever going to stop indulging in this wonderful tradition.

I am hoping that the people of London (at least) know what i’m talking about… Go and grab some chips, cheap white bread and slather on loads of butter… you won’t ever look back.

Except for to notice how huge your butt has got after eating twenty of these gloriously naughty suppers…