A Brunch bar in my bag

Hidey doesn’t want a Brunch bar either

There’s a Brunch bar in my bag, it sits beside my eyeliner, lipstick, fluff collection and emergency pair of tights, well you never know when your fanbelt will go and need a quick fix with a deft hand. Though come to think of it, I don’t think my VW has a fanbelt, I’ve never looked under the bonnet, there are scary things there, including spiders.

There’s a Brunch bar in my bag, it calls my name every day with its sugary-sweet voice, chewing on the words.. ‘A-a-a-a-n-n-n-n-e, eat meeeeee, you know you w-a-a-a-a-a-n-t to…’ But I don’t. The wrapper rustles as I firkle inside, looking for something to make my eyes look bigger, there were times when the sight of chocolate would make my eyes as big as saucers, chocolate saucers, but not any more, those days are behind me now.

There’s a Brunch bar in my bag, it’s been there since the end of January. All that’s left from a bargain box of six, the other five gobbled down in record time, hardly touching the sides, I’m not proud of that speed-eating, I felt a bit sick, the sugar rush was too much, this had to stop. It did.

There’s a Brunch bar in my bag, but I don’t want it, I really don’t. Sugar-free February was a way of detoxing, saying no to cakes, sweets, chocolates and puddings. It started well, in fact it was ridiculously easy, I could just say ‘no, thanks’. The test came during our ski holiday, cake is everywhere, but I didn’t have any, not a slice. February came and went, I lost weight, though that might have been the eight days of skiing, and I didn’t miss the sugar, not one bit. So I carried on.

There’s a Brunch bar in my bag, it’s become an emergency ration, a sweet safety net that I don’t think I’ll need. When we returned to the UK from holiday I decided to celebrate the end of sugar-Free February with pancakes and maple syrup. After all, I’d stayed sugar-free so I could return to my bad habits. Except the maple syrup was too sweet, I couldn’t eat it, damn, I couldn’t be bad, sugar was dead to me.

There’s a Brunch bar in my bag, and that’s where it’s going to stay. I hear it, chatting away to the tights and eyeliner, the lippy stays quiet, it’s an aloof lippy, I may move it to another pocket. Brunchy calls my name from time to time, but it knows I’m not going to eat it any time soon – and the use-by date is fast approaching.

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