Mrs Bumble

 

Tonight I'm cooking pasta. Yes, you read that right. I'm going to eat carbs and not think about the consequences. It's nearly Christmas, you see. Last night I munched down huge amounts of cheddar accompanied with at least six cream crackers and washed down with hot Ribena (consumed standing up by the kitchen counter, still wearing my coat). What is it about this time of year that makes me behave like a pig? And it's not just about eating junk per se but a significant lowering of my own personal standard and a total change in outlook. My usual rule is few white carbs or sugar and no processed food. Somehow, I've managed to have all three in the past twenty four hours.

Milky way? Maltesers? No problem. Marks and Sparks All Butter Twists? Yum yum. Mince pies? Can't get enough. These are some of the things that I have eaten in the last week that would never usually pass my lips. I mean I don't even like Milky Ways so what the hell am I doing?

I don't want to sound anal here but for the last few months I've been trying really hard to not eat crap and I know that not eating bread or wheat of any kind has made helped me lose quite a bit of weight. It seems a shame that I'm going to undo all my good work over the festive season and I'm not even going to try and stop myself. I'm sure the inside of my stomach currently looks like the tube on 'Supersize vs Superskinny' that the fat person's food is dropped down, when it forms that yucky pile at the bottom. I've probably consumed a similar amount of calories recently. The only difference is that I don't have to stand shivering in my underwear whilst being bollocked by Dr Christian. Actually, maybe that would be a good deterrent? I'm pretty sure I wouldn't be so happy to stuff myself if I knew that I would have to face that in the New Year and then have it broadcast on national TV.

But hey, it's Christmas. It's only a couple of weeks, right? I say that every year until it's time to try stuff on during the January sales and realise that I shouldn't have eaten that fourth mini pork pie the day before. That's definitely not fun. Yuck... even the thought of seeing my body in that state fills me with dread and there still a couple of weeks of hardcore gorging to go. The thing is, all that lovely snuggly knitwear that we tend to wear over the festive period camouflages all the body hang ups that come to be so glaringly obvious to us in the spring (or in the changing room of Topshop on Boxing Day). I also love the fact that one can wear a party dress and tights in the winter – they cover up cellulite quite nicely. Last night I went out in a sparkly black dress, heels and thick tights (you know, the elasticated Shape 'n Tone kind that finish just under your boobs). They held my thighs in a treat....genius.

At this time of the year, I always feel at my least attractive. On Christmas Day, I feel like Mr Bumble in 'Oliver!' – you know, the fat guy in the workhouse who says 'Moooore?' At the beginning of the film, we see him sitting at a table groaning with meat and cheese and then stuffing it greedily into his mouth. That's me at Christmas – gluttonous and sweaty. I did try to combat this one year with a session of festive yoga. However, I'd forgotten that I'd already had an Amaretto or two and it wasn't a success. Lets just say that the Downward Facing Dog made me feel incredibly nauseous. My yoga mat still smells like regurgitated sage and onion stuffing.

This slipping of standards doesn't just apply to food. It also applies to social etiquette, drinking and general work ethic. It's a big break from the rules that we impose on ourselves for the rest of the year. At no other time of the year could I watch three films back to back whilst shovelling Bombay Mix into my mouth and not feel guilty. I just don't usually have time to lie on the sofa and do nothing. It's not the question of the calories I'm consuming, its more that I'm allowing myself to wallow there, with greasy hair, totally enjoying 'The Sound of Music' in my pyjamas guilt free.

Nor do I consider it acceptable at any other time of the year to flirt with my little brother's friends. Not cool. I'm pretty sure that that will be going on again this year. Never mind that they're all at least five years younger than me, flirting with boys who were born half way through the eighties is fiiiine at this time of year. Expected almost. It's the equivalent of eating the last coffee creme out of the box of Quality St. You wouldn't normally do it and its generally considered not quite right but as it's Christmas, its acceptable. (I could insert a pun here about putting something mindlessly in my mouth but I won't because that would be disgusting).

This type of inappropriately flirty behaviour usually occurs on the night you find yourself drunk, stumbling down the street in your sparkly dress and Shape n' Tone tights like someone from one of those police programmes about arrests in Britain's town centres. To be fair, its been a good few years since I've behaved like that (Two). But the same recklessness is there, that same 'What the hell, it's the party season' attitude that makes us all act crazily at this time of year.

Recently, my productivity at work has dropped dramatically. I have been given, in the last week or so, to spending periods of time staring vacantly ahead of me when I could be getting on with marking or other stuff that I will now have to do in the New Year. I just can't make myself do it. Maybe it's because my brain has been fried from an overload of mince pies and other seasonal delicacies. Maybe I'm just tired. Maybe I've just had too much mulled wine. Maybe its a combo of all three.

At the end of the day, I think one has to surrender to the festive spirit, whatever the consequences. Better to be flabby and hungover than end up looking like an Old Scrooge. So grab that Bombay Mix and lie yourself down on the sofa. Eat cheese til your heart's content. With Christmas cake. Just don't moan come January.