That last slice of treacle tart has my name on it. I know it runs the risk of me not getting my silver star at class Monday night but I deserve it. Been good all week, I have, so I can splurge won’t hurt. It’s only Friday, I can be good at the weekend. Besides, it’s only a little piece… by comparison to the whole thing.
Bit of a queue but they’re all suits, they’ll go for sandwiches or the meal deal; sarnie, crisps and a drink, low calorie usually, they look the type. You know, a swim before work, weights or treadmill on the way home.
I never had a problem with my weight until I met Eric, then meals out, cooking for two, it just piled on. Ironic then that he left me for our next door neighbour, so skinny she’d disappear behind a lamppost. I guess that’s what he likes to do. Meet someone, fatten them up then move on.
So then I started comfort eating and here – Butler’s Bakery – became my second home until I ran out of clothes and couldn’t afford to buy any more, so signed up with Belly Busters. Two weeks, six pounds. Another pound and I get a silver star. Seven more after that and I get a gold one. I’ll have more stars than that Hollywood pavement… sidewalk they call them, don’t they. You know, where they get them to kneel down and get their hands all dirty. Show’s they’re human, that they don’t mind doing that.
It’s having everything still warm that’s the clincher, from Butler’s. More expensive than the supermarket, granted, but most of the supermarket’s stuff’s been there since yesterday. I know because one of the doughnut’s still has my thumb print in it. And it’s why it has no queue either.
My favourite’s the Chelsea Bun – peel layers off as I walk home. I used to buy two, or more, so there’d be something left to look forward to. Someone’s beaten me to them today, so it’s treacle tart. Find them a bit sweet if I’m honest.
Great, nearly there. One, two… fourth. That’s OK. At the front, there’s Ben the builder at the front (loves bending over as the girls go by and they always giggle) – English breakfast in a bap then Old Mrs Tomlinson – seeded batch and scotch egg. I’m good with people. Well, working in a hairdressers for so many years, you get to find out a lot about the human race.
Don’t know who the lady in front of me is. Nice perfume; sweet but not overpowering. Meal deal for sure.
Ben. Breakfast in a bap, check. And Coke and a Kit Kat.
Mrs T. Seeded batch and two scotch eggs! Pushing the boat out today.
OK. Perfume lady. Ham salad sandwich. Cheese? OK. Diet Coke. Of course… Crisps now. Ready salted, I think. It’s not difficult, dear. They’ve only got a choice of three. No, don’t point over there. Phew. Yes, the Eccles do look nice. No. Changed your mind again. No wonder they always have a queue. The assistant should be firmer. Give us all a time slot.
Of course I always know what I want before I get to the counter. The displays are clear enough to choose before…
No! Go back to the Eccles. No! Not the… please don’t. What am going to have if you go for the…
Bye, treacle tart. And you look so good…
Picture above courtesy of morguefile.com.
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