You’d think I’d get sick of the stuff, wouldn’t you? I do sometimes, and yet if I go more than two days on the cheese wagon, I start craving it.
Having not tasted cheese for several days, tonight the craving came on strong. I went to the fridge and cut a big piece, and mounch’d, and mounch’d, and mounch’d. Aroint thee witch, the rump-fed ronion cried… (Sorry, I digress.) Like all good addictions, however, one piece failed to satisfy the urge and a second visit to the fridge was made in haste. And now I expect that the food gurus out there who understand the connection between food and mood will have me consigned to a pigeon hole with a label tied around my neck, accompanied by the drinker on one side and the user on the other.
I have a feeling that this subject has featured on the blog before. I seem to recall one of my alternate personalities mentioning the fact. Ah, well. Put it down to finding a different way of saying it.