A truly tragic tale

Do you know what the definition of tragedy is? I will tell you, gentle Reader but would warn you that you may be distressed. I bought myself a fairy cake from the Waitrose cafe as a super-special treat on Saturday – this was as a result of being a VERY good girl all week and also because I’d bought a cake in the National Trust canteen on our walk and it was so disappointing I’d had one bite, tried to palm it off on to a disgusted bf and then managed to leave it. I don’t find it easy to leave sweet stuff even if I don’t like it. It was with a sense of pride and achievement therefore (and okay, a bit of greed) that I chose my lemon and lavender fairycake. I carried it home as carefully as if it were a baby bird and I waited for as long as I could bear after dinner. And then I tried it. Reader, there had been a mix up and they’d iced a banana cake with lavender icing. I absolutely detest bananas but even had I liked them, I would not have combined banana and lavender – even Heston Blumenthal would surely shy away from that mixture. I ate it and felt miserable that a) I’d eaten it and b) that it was awful. Isn’t that utterly tragic?

The weekend was otherwise lovely – a long walk on Saturday which could have been a disaster as we forgot our walking boots. I had to walk in Converse and bf in boat shoes (he has a large blister as a result). We also had to moon-leap across deep, recently ploughed furrows, some 2ft deep. We sunk to our knees. We had got half way across the field on a track and the track just ran out. It was like a comedy – we just looked at one another and with one bound we were off, grimly accepting of our mucky, red lot. The farmer in his tractor paused to watch the spectacle – grrr. Thankfully all the orange has come off the white rim of my Converse but bf swears he’s still shaking the dirt out of his shoes.

Sunday was glorious and a little pootle around a lovely nearby wood – bf optimistically reckoning the bluebells would be out (they weren’t). We also did what bf called an Easter egg hunt – a cute as fluffy tailed, twitchy nosed bunny term for actually going to Waitrose and buying an Easter egg apiece. Actually he had two because of the offer on his egg of choice!

I’m hoping (but not expecting) another good result on SoD (which will have to prove itself over more than one week to be be re-christened! Am prepared to reconsider after a month of steady spectacular losses) as I’ve been ultra strict again. Will let you know.

Next week will be a tricky balancing of syns. I want to eat my egg (Ferrero Rocher if you’re interested, with the shell having shards of hazelnut in) and am okay that it will be a little at a time (maybe 7-8 syns a pop). But I also want a hot cross bun – a gobstoppingly shocking 10 syns without butter! – and probably the odd glass of wine (6). But I only get 15 a day – arghhh. The maths just doesn’t work whichever way you play it. I bought some wholemeal hot X buns (my bun of choice) and carefully separated them into single bags and popped them in the freezer. Where I sadly suspect they will have to stay in perpetuity.