EDITION 22 - ONE LAST WORD
By Diane Foden

Guilty Pleasures

Please tell me you have them too.

I’m not just talking about dancing on the bubble-wrap when you have just had your new washing machine delivered, you understand. Or a liking for the music of Chris de Burgh (I hate to think how many of you are now saying “What’s wrong with Chris de Burgh?” Oh, please.) Or even sneakily fancying Aled Jones now his voice has broken. (None of these is mine, I hasten to add. Well, perhaps the bubble wrap) No, I’m talking about really disgusting indulgences such as, for instance, Heinz Sandwich Spread which reduce me to hiding in the pantry with the door shut. How could I adore something which looks pretty much like baby-sick, complete with tiny chunks of carrot to give it authenticity? And if bread is not available, straight out of the jar is just fine, even though it is so vinegary it makes your eyes water. Or peanut butter. In the case of peanut butter I don’t even consider bread; a spoon is all that is necessary. Or even a finger. And whilst I am on matters of the tastebuds (that’s a misnomer in my case, isn’t it? I seem to have lack-of-taste buds), I have to admit to dripping butties too. Lord, that glorious mix of fat, salt and the brown bits from under the joint. Preferably on dreadful English White Sliced. Cholesterol heaven. Blame my mother; she made me believe that it was a special treat and I fell for it.

Not that all my indulgences are of the culinary variety; I have regrettable lapses into trash telly as well. Although you couldn’t really call “Crimewatch” trash, could you? Good heavens, it’s virtually a public service programme with its clean cut PCs (Presenter Coppers) who look good but have all the dramatic skills of a carpet. I know it’s a bit daft clinging to my addiction now I live in Mallorca; it’s not likely that the baddies are going to pop over here for a long weekend so I can catch them. But I live in hope.

Even worse – I also watch daytime television. Including (and I’m really sorry about this) Jeremy Kyle, whom I view from behind the sofa in disbelief. Gosh, I wish I could have earnt a living yelling at people. I’m sure I would benefit from a bit of therapeutic shouting. I spent my whole working life being nice to my clients; doesn’t get you anywhere, does it?

So there you have it. I was hoping that letting some light in on the grubby corners of my psyche might have the same effect as going to confession, and help me to get back on the low-fat and intellectually stimulating straight and narrow, but actually I think I’m going to regret writing this because a small and rebellious voice in my head is squawking “But it’s fun and it tastes good”. Those are good reasons for almost anything in my book.

Maybe I should retain a couple of real naughties in the far corner of my closet where the mop doesn’t reach, just in case.