I blame birthdays

Before I left Australia, I dreamt of acquiring thosands of pounds in the UK and shipping them back to my home shore like a pirate hauling in his treasure. My mind was lost in fantasies of black Fender guitars, Chloe handbags and tropical holidays. Bursting out of my jeans wasn’t quite what I had in mind.

Since being in London, I have gained the wrong kind of pounds. It’s what everyone calls the Heathrow injection – perfectly fit, slim and healthy Aussies arrive in the UK and, within mere months, pack on some serious KGs. One may attribute this to a lack of exercise, but I’ve walked up flights of stairs that would make Jacob’s Ladder look like a matchbox.

I blame birthdays. Everyone in my office proudly parades a selection of crème-filled, chocolate coated, sugar dusted cakes on their special day of birth. And, I suspect, the celebrations last for more than just 24 hours Over four months, out of a staff of 21, there has been at least 30 tempting tea-breaks of this nature.

The horrifying part is that, by refusing to accept a slice, you are refusing to celebrate their birthday; therefore repudiating their very existence on this earth. Saying no to their cake is like saying ‘I wish you were never born!’ and, no matter how much I yearn for this prophecy to be true for 90% of my colleagues, my inherent Catholic guilt tells me it’s the wrong thing to do.

I eat cake to celebrate other people’s lives (because that’s what Jesus would have done… because he was way cool) and, in doing so, am ruining mine! I don’t think it is just a coincidence that, if I weighed all the cake I have eaten (approx 3 kilos) it would equal the weight I’ve gained whilst living in the UK.