I celebrated the death of four kilos today.
You'd think that as a result I'd be bouyed up with resolve to hold onto it for the next week of plenty of opportunity to eat very badly indeed.
You see, I had to go to Donut King.
And they sell warm, cinnamony, sugary donuts there.
And I love warm, cinnamony, sugary donuts.
I avoid the shopping centre like the plague because they have a Donut King.
But today I just had to go.
Why? You may ask.
My Grandad likes thickshakes.
We usually buy him a voucher for Donut King so that he can get some when he goes up the street (he doesn't get out all that much anymore). The man who owns the shop knows him and has been known to make the thickshake so thick you can hardly suck it up through the straw. He's also happy to cross off part of the value of the voucher so that Grandad can have multiple trips. This is the beauty of living in a country town.
So I went to buy a voucher for my Grandad.
...and I smelled the doughyness of the cooking donuts.
And the chance that leaving the shopping centre my mouth didn't have that delightful doughy tongue-sticking-to-my-hard-palate post-donut sensation?
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