Guilty until proven innocent

There's an ├ępicerie anglo-saxonne in our town. I go there whenever I need some Anglo-Saxon groceries. Which is rather often.

As I walked into the shop this afternoon, the shopkeeper gave me a knowing smile of recognition. The kind of knowing smile I imagine a porn shop employee giving his regulars whenever they pop in for their weekly or perhaps daily set of porn DVDs. The kind of smile in which only one half of the mouth curves upwards. A leery smile that says, "I know exactly what you're after."

Why I am Crap At Dieting

Tell me I am dieting and immediately my mind will have put its little mental running shoes on, tied them up neatly, donned some lycra and be running off to the nearest shop to buy a mental vanilla slice.  Then, as ever, my whole being will follow suit.  Within a day of ordering me a diet, I will be
giggling and showing you how to eat a vanilla slice without getting the middle bit to hit the floor.