Dream a little dream...

You'll remember how I was moaning like a ghost at Halloween how awful my week was last Friday.  With all of its cancellations and change of plans, I was truly glad to see the back of it.

This week has been so much better.  Let's face it, any week which starts by being holed up in a metal box for forty eight hours with the one you love has got to be the best of starts.  And after the edible chaos which is December, this week I finally managed to get my head (and fridge) in order with regard to eating the right things.  Perhaps I won't have to adjust the Rocky Horror shorts after all.

I've managed a lot of good walks with even better friends and two sessions of Pilates.  There's been no snacking or loitering around the crisp drawer and the wine bottles remain corked. Actually, the wine bottles are always corked as I am more of a gin drinker, but you know what I mean.

So it's a good end to January for which I am grateful (and slightly relieved as I have to don swimwear at the end of February).

The husband isn't quite where I am where food is concerned, and is still mourning the demise of the sausage plaits and Christmas cake.  I watched him last night as he rustled up a rather meagre cheese board, and as he sat in the lounge prodding at his lump of cheddar (this sounds very wrong) I imagined that he had visions of Brie, Stilton and Devon Blue skipping through his head with a small bunch of grapes and some tasty posh crackers.  

Finally pushing it away with a small sigh, he said, 'Well, that didn't come even close to hitting the spot'.

You're telling me, my love.  All last week I was trying to imagine that my salad was in fact a homemade puff pastry wheel, straight out of the oven with cocktail sausages peeking out of the crisp twists of pastry, finished off with a bowl of my homemade chutney for dipping.

Dreaming's not fattening is it?

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