I don’t know how much weight I’ve gained since I started reviewing restaurants. And I don’t dare find out. There’s a set of scales in the bathroom, but I can’t bring myself to use them. I don’t like the way they look at me.
I can see their smirk of amusement, the wry little glances they exchange with the shower curtain. When I turn my back, I swear I can hear them sniggering. I spin round – whereupon they act all innocent, butter wouldn’t melt. But I know. I know.
Restaurants are just so fattening. Fine if you only visit them occasionally, as a treat, but if you do it all the time, like I do, you can practically feel the pounds piling on as you eat, one after another in remorseless succession. Yep, there’s one. And another. And another. The sheer gruelling richness of the food. The merciless, gloating opulence. So bad for your waistline.
Even in places where the portions are tiny. If anything,...
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