The Designated Driver

17 Jan

There is very few things that are good about January. It’s a cold, barren and frugal time of the year. We shudder at the gluttonous excesses of December and resolve ourselves to a masochistic regime of resolutions in a bid to make ourselves fitter, happier, more productive…

I’ve even jumped on the abstinence bandwagon (I can’t comprehend how, with gluttony and excess being two of my favourite pastimes) but it is here that the one joy of this bleak month is to be found. In the moment where one inevitably slips up and everything tastes the better for it.

On a day off last week, I woke up with a long and virtuous list of things to do. However, nothing could be started without a coffee. Not as treat, I tell myself (for such things are not to be had on such a perfectly productive day) but out of sheer necessity.

And so, several hours later, I find myself at a favourite restaurant, after an afternoon of gorging on cakes, running on beaches, hurling down winding country roads and becoming closely devoured by one overly excited pony. I sit and guzzle down my calorific chowder without so much of an apology and I bask in the glory of my New Years Failure.

I look at my companion.

She got the salad.

Skinny fool.

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