Café Coffee Chaos

For the last 8 weeks I have decided that I want the body of a God other than Buddha so have been very good and eaten (dare I say it) healthily. I have marched past cake shops with my head held high, ignored the little Haribo imp on my shoulder persuading me to buy and eaten lots of exciting things like fruit, vegetables and salad. My local supermarket has taken on the role of public library as I slowly move along the aisles poring over labels and trying to fathom the relationships between monounsaturated fats, sugar and the like in the vain hope that I might find something I vaguely like which is also good for me.

I find myself snarling at the slim people gaily shovelling biscuits, chocolate and pork pies into their baskets as I self-righteously place my "I Can't Believe This Has No Fucking Taste Whatsoever" low-fat spread into my own. Of course, sometimes I give into temptation and treat us to a box of breadsticks (6 kcal, fat negligible) but on the whole I've been quite good.

Well, I disgraced myself today. Mrs B had to go and have something done to her nails which, I think, is merely an excuse to sit quietly for an hour and have a good natter to the girls in the shop. I decided I would be very continental and sit at a pavement café and read my book, the latest offering from Bill Bryson.

I had every intention of having something like diet water or the like but I suddenly saw the words "iced coffee". By a reasoned process of logic along the lines of "What the hell" I persuaded myself that this was quite OK and wouldn't turn me into Michelin man. The order was made, the die was cast and I sat there, sun shining on my newly trim physique, awaiting this little burst of Heaven. Suddenly the minion appeared once more and asked if I would like cream on it?

A strangled groan escaped my lips, shortly followed by a small dribble of saliva. The silly girl , obviously mistakenly, took this as a positive indication and disappeared within once more to prepare this calorifically orgasmic concoction whilst I sat there looking cool and chic. The iced coffee arrived with a reasonably accurate representation of Mont Blanc in cream atop it as well as a small jug containing yet more iced coffee. "I made a bit too much" said the girl coyly, as she disappeared once more.

I sat there, ready to savour the first sip and debating whether to fetch a spoon to attack the cream or just wrestle with the tastefully spiralled 12 inch straw. To my horror I noticed that the cream was already melting in the heat and, following faithfully the theory of displacement, was threatening to overflow the precious nectar. Leaving aside the suave, sophisticated image for a moment I grabbed hastily at the glass, anxious not to waste a precious calorie and, of course, managed to drip it everywhere. I then resorted to trying to suck up the cream but the straw was somewhat tricky to handle, I needed the suction of a Dyson and I therefore made even more of a mess.

Several napkins later, I had restored order and was delicately sipping once more whilst giggling to myself at the antics of Bill Bryson's childhood. The peace was shattered by a group of four ladies parking themselves next to me and chattering loudly. My attempt at relaxation was destroyed so I finished the drink, carefully sucking up every last bit and trying not to make too many noises as I nosed around for the dregs. Shooting one of my best "If looks could kill" glances, I wandered off; 20,000 calories in debit, willpower in tatters and a pebble-dashed teeshirt.

Having said that, this latest Bill Bryson book is magnificent. I have a very dear friend, who is more like a brother than my own ever was, and he once said that my style reminded him of Bill Bryson, albeit on a bad day. He didn't know that Bryson is a hero of mine with his dry, subtle but hilariously funny observations so that was praise indeed. The latest book recounts the story of Bryson's childhood and I was amazed to read that he also had an alter-ego; The Thunderbolt Kid. He came from another planet which was destroyed, just like Bertie's, and also had superpowers. He was also sent to Earth and adopted by Earth parents! I've toyed with suing him for plagiarism but The Thunderbolt Kid's selection of weapons far surpasses Bertie's so I will just write it off as a meeting of two great minds.

The really annoying part of his new book is that, some while ago, I had decided that, if I was ever to write a book, it would be of my childhood. Once again, I've lost out - but it couldn't have been to a better man!