Nutella depravity

My second favourite spread. Anita flies the flag for
Organic Peanut Butter in Boulder, Colorado.

Two days ago, on Friday morning, I put my finger in the Nutella jar.  This is neither a euphemism, nor some sort of saucy innuendo.   Rather, I simply stuffed my hand in as far as I could (getting Nutella residue all over the back of my hand in the process). I scraped up a huge dollop of hazelnut chocolately goodness on my index finger, put it in my mouth, and licked and sucked my finger until it was clean.  This week I finally descended into Nutella depravity. 

In my defence, it was a bad week. Yet it all started so well. I had a hospital appointment booked in on Wednesday morning – five weeks to the day since I wrecked me leg.  I had convinced myself that this was going to be the day when the medics would confirm their initial six week prognosis, that is, that I would be out of my full leg plaster in a mere seven days.  Alas, it was not to be. The consultant instead confirmed that I would be in the cast for another three weeks.  Three weeks!  I mounted a feeble protest about hoping to be back on my feet sooner, which was quickly swatted away.  I think I actually said “but I was hoping to go back to work before the end of the month”. This was, of course, a lie (or a half-lie, at least).  I came home in a state of dejection.  Not even the news that I could put 10% bodyweight on my bad leg (with the aid of a rather trendy hospital-issue velcro shoe) helped.  To compound matters I had been trying to wean myself off the codeine and was suffering the predicted withdrawal effects (splitting headaches and bouts of irritation – I can only hope I never get addicted to heroin).  

When I first wrecked me leg I convinced myself I would become a model of good health.  A pint of skimmed milk a day, plenty of fruit and vegetables, lots of fresh fish, plenty of water, no alcohol, no caffeine. I managed all of the above, except the alcohol and caffeine. And the water (the water has gradually been replaced by alcohol and caffeine).  And I pretty quickly started hitting the Nutella. At first it was on toast, once a week, as a treat instead of my cereal.  Then it was once a week as well as my cereal. Then more than once a week.  Then I started eating it spread on digestive biscuits, then with bananas and ice cream for pudding.  Eventually, I started eating it, furtively, straight from the jar with a spoon, in between episodes of The Wire (I used a teaspoon – I'm not a monster).  And then, on Friday, I could take it no more.  No need for a spoon, I just rammed my hand in and ate it like some sort of primitive savage, straight from the jar.

But just when I reached the depths of Nutella depravity, things started looking up.  Sophie and Hugh came round for a Thai take-out on Friday night, with Raffi and Max in tow. Then I spent a pleasant Saturday afternoon propped up in the garden on our new space-age artificial lawn. On Saturday night I hobbled round for a party at Eilidh and Dave’s house where I drank lots of beer and listened to James's take on the latest premiership footballer sex-scandal (including tips on the best internet search terms to use). And today I caught up with family and friends at my niece Emily’s third birthday party.  So, all in all, things are looking up. I've looked into the Nutella abyss, and I've stepped away from the edge. I’ll still be visiting the jar this week, but I reckon I’ll be back to using a spoon.