Whenever I am about to go on holidays, I always pack a good amount of self-deceit. For instance, before I left Melbourne, I promised myself I would go for a soul-cleansing walk each day; that nothing but healthy, country fare would pass my lips so by the time for the beach came, I would look like a (5ft) model and have a prize-worthy intestinal tract to boot.
Naturally, none of this has happened.
My will power is at fault; although genes play a factor. I come from a family of sweet tooths. My grandfather is infamous for once going into a pub to order a chocolate bar and a beer – in that order. My mother blames him for introducing myself and my sister to the stuff, and now when we go visit him, and I watch him push lollies onto my (willing! eager!) children, I can’t help but smile, even if I will pay in dentists bills later.
I guess when on holiday one can easily say to oneself, “Chocolate is forever; family isn’t.” So I intervene only when my son has eaten half a packet of cream wafer biscuits, because before that point I cannot help but grin at my grandfather’s grin as he watches my son.
This is why I came home. This is why I miss it so.
This is why it is hard, too; because my father is not well, and I could write another post – a depressing one – just on how life in this house has changed. But not today.
Today I am shirking off the diet, and am not caring a jot.
