Sins, I've had a few. In fact, when I think about it, I am sure I have quite a lot. Still, there are only seven deadly ones, so maybe those extras I have are nothing to worry about.
At this particular time of year the most obvious and widespread sin seems to be gluttony. There may be one or two virtuous souls who managed some restraint over the past few weeks, but most of us have been enjoying a gluttonous orgy of consumption, mainlining lard and snorting sugar, laughing with our mouths full as the crumbs spray and buttons fly. So many chocolates! So much cheese! So many alcoholic beverages! The festive season is traditionally a time for excess, when one is expected, indeed encouraged, to indulge in all manner of fatty, sugary, boozey treats. It'a a time for feeling constantly full, for wallowing on the sofa surrounded by sweetie wrappers and bottles and for not getting any exercise beyond travelling to the fridge. It's fucking fantastic.
Still, all good things must come to an end and as I sit here, gently wobbling, with only the orange or strawberry cremes left in the tin, it seems as good a time as any to renounce gluttony and embrace temperance instead.
I am sure I am not alone this January in gazing down at the quivering mound of blubber euphemistically referred to as "my sexy lady belly" and wondering if I'll ever see my pubes again (without the aid of a make-up mirror on a stick.) After Christmas the sales of "low fat" this and "reduced sugar" that soar, as do memberships for the gym and exercise equipment. I am loathe to give any facet of the diet industry my hard-earned cash yet find myself putting "healthy" options into my trolley and enjoying a rush of smug superiority at the checkout as the person before me unloads their cakes and pies. No more gluttony for me, I am too busy frolicking through my masochistic world of dietary denial.
Butter, for example, is high in fat, but tastes really really good and melts beautifully into your toast. Low-fat spread looks like smegma and refuses to melt, smearing whitely over my toast like a yeast infection on a gusset. It's shite, but I have it in my fridge anyway. I can only explain it by likening it to some sort of penance, the edible equivalent of wearing a hair shirt, to compensate for my former gluttony.
Ah, gluttony. How I miss you. We will be reunited again though, have no doubt.