Dense, succulently moist, cloyingly rich and sticky. Chocolate cake. Laced with Cognac.
I need to fix it in my memory, because that’s where it must remain confined, at least until after the Hamburg Marathon on April 24. Last night I opened the fridge, hoping to find a tomato or half a stick of celery to snack on – and there it was. A slab the size of half a house-brick. As mentioned yesterday, it was originally somewhat larger than this, but my hunger and greed has… eroded it over the past few days.
Guzzle and chomp and slurp and lick. It was mutually-assured-destruction. We finished each other off.
I bring it up again today… [no, that would be far too easy…] because it was only today that the full, terrible implications of the cake’s extermination made themselves clear. This afternoon I went for my planned 5 mile run, and… and Jesus-Tapdancing-Christ, what a horrid experience it was.
The first two miles, lurching along one of the local lanes, was as miserable a plod as I’ve had in a year. The cake was there. I could feel it kicking. It must have somehow been reunited with the other great chunks consumed over the previous few days, because now it was the size of a shoe-box. My stomach was so distended and bouncy that it actually felt like a new limb.
Into the third mile, things got slightly better, and I managed 4.9 miles eventually. But never again. Never ever ever again in the next 14 weeks will I eat chocolate cake. Dense, succulently moist, cloyingly rich and sticky. Choc-choccy-chocolate cake. Laced with Cognac. Size of a house brick.
