I blame the pastries

It’s a common understanding that everyone has their own way of dealing with life events like loss, confrontation or falling over in a public place. I’ve also found this to be true of consoling oneself after a demanding day at work.

The more sensible among us release their tension through sex, wine or ranting to their other halves. I however, more frequently turn to the rapidly-backfiring comfort of food. But not only is this adding a concerning number of centimetres to my already-squidgy areas, it’s also adding an extra 30mins a day to my journey home.

I once read that the average Londoner spends approximately 139hours per year commuting. So, on moving to within a 10minute walk of work, I was naively smug about that fact that I was one of the few lucky exceptions to the rule. This was until the fateful day that I was finally coaxed into Somerfield by a combination of a gruelling day at work and a sign which read “All pastries now just 40p”.

Please don’t judge me here readers – I can usually muster a little more self restraint than to be enticed by an offer on sugary carb-based products, but the night before this particular day I had consumed so much red wine that I almost sent a morning email to a senior male client with ‘xxx’ typed after my name.

Anyway, needless to say it's been downhill from there. Almost every day since then I’ve spent approximately 40mins in Somerfield, trying to decide what I can cook for dinner that will be so overwhelmingly delicious that all of my work trauma will simply fade into non-existence and leave me bathing in a reverent glow of food bliss.

Unfortunately, when one’s brain has been addled by unsuitable levels of alcohol or sleep-deprivation, this decision is not an easy one. In this instance, I find myself either in the fresh produce aisle, staring at things like saffron, Indonesian coconut milk or seared quail, under the inaccurate assumption that I am capable of cooking something remotely complex. Or I’m attempting some sort of hideous Supermarket Sweep effort – flying round the aisles in a panic with arms laden with un-complimenting dishes, picking up and flinging down fishcakes, meringues, tinned spaghetti, and self-raising flour….all because I’m so completely terrified at the prospect of not enjoying my dinner.

And so it continues, and probably will forever. Unless I find a different route home. Or a different job. Or until I am found, slumped in the corner of my kitchen, clutching a glass of wine in one hand and two eggshells in the other, shaking a tear-stained because my Soufflé won’t rise. Surely then it’s time for an intervention?