By way of ‘keeping myself busy’, I thought I’d whip up some biscuits, or rusks, that I can munch during the day, and keep the appetite beast at bay.
There have been some concerns that the monthly shop that was done only 10 days ago, and increased by 25% to accommodate my arrival and stay, will not be enough, as my appetite scares a lot of people. Taking this into consideration, I thought I’d fiddle the recipe a bit and not use all the butter and flour, in making what I thought would be regarded as a good move, to curb both my appetite and the troughs of food I need to consume to keep going.
That meant, to me at least, that I’d simply replace these core baking ingredients with milk and sugar, one being the source of butter, the other, a white powder not unlike flour or cocaine, but actually, a lot more like crystal meth (though my love affair with sugar began about 4 minutes after I was born…)
The resultant gelatinous puddle would have been unpalatable even to the most epic of heroin addicts (renowned for their need for sugar while tripping balls).
But the steaming mass DID give me cause to ponder if everything I do really is an extreme? TOO much sugar, TOO much carbonated cool drink, TOO much salt, TOO much cream…and it’s not JUST food, either!
My life has been littered with too much speed (both the drug and the other way to break the law, in a car), too much and now too little money, too much and now too little work, too costly a trip to take when I was first selected to represent South Africa, as a junior fencer, and then, when finally I could represent as a fully-fledged member of the senior team, too close, as the international tournament we were selected for was hosted not only in my home city, but in the building right next door, at the University of Pretoria, too close to feel like a special event.
Too much arrogance, too much impatience and too much intolerance have lead to too many apologies. Too much weight gain lead to too much body dysmorphia, and bulimia. Too many shoes were too much to carry, so there remain a few pairs in Johannesburg, Cape Town, Gaborone and in London, from the time spent there (will my legacy be random piles of shoes, when I die, littering the globe?)
Too much self-analysis has been tempered with too much inconsiderate thought, for others, and at the end of the day. this last trip to addiction’s final-but-one destination of Rock Bottom, has proved too much for many friends and acquintances.
On average, I glibly postulated in the past, I am indeed an exponent of moderation, as I have been told to be by many, for many years: You simply have to wait as I vacillate from one extreme, “too much” to the other, “too little” and then aim somewhere in the middle. The pendulum, of course, swings to another rhythm, not of my making, and so life and the multiverse will have none of that sort of reasoning: though I ache for just one more hit, one more spoon of sugar, another pair of shoes, just one bottle of Fanta more, now is the time to pay back, with interest, for all those years spent in glorious and deranged self-indulgence.
Everybody pays, soon or later.