Some people are born with a sweet tooth, my own children have inherited this. My son is still incredibly thin, as I was at his age, able to eat whatever he likes without fear of getting bigger. (I know this wont last, but he refuses to accept the genetic proof of both his father and grandfather now approaching the size of something Greenpeace would cover with water and carry them to the waters edge should they find them sunbathing near the sea).
Some people are born with a savoury tooth, the laydee of the house would happily browse a savoury buffet and leave the table groaning under the weight of her plate without ever having touched a cake or doughnut.
Some people are born with sweet teeth. For these people an entire goblet of pick and mix can be finished in rapid time, with scarcely a stop between chewing a jelly sweet whilst shovelling in smarties and white chocolate mice. I confess to being both the first and third person, and could happily avoid the savoury section totally if it wasn’t for my expanding midriff.
In fact, I’m not sure I’ve a sweet tooth, or even sweet teeth. I have a sweet mouth, tongue, throat, head and stomach. Everything about me is sweet except my face and my nature. This explains the refusal of my body to reduce its weight.
Living in France, the home of gastronomy, with its fantastic boulangeries and patisseries doesn’t make it easy, my lack of will power makes it even more difficult.
However, there is a sign of slight hope. This morning I found I’d lost over a kilo. I’d not cut my hair or my nails, so there must actually be a bit of proper weight loss.