Toby Carvery and other adventures

It’s been a while since I blogged (perhaps I’ve had less to rant and rave about recently but, more likely, I’ve just found myself with less time to set those rants and raves onto paper. Or at least onto my Ipad). Yes, I’ve been incredibly busy and looking forward to a Toby Carvery with my Beloved for most of the week. Specifically Toby Carvery because Weight Watchers- as flexible as their approach to dieting is meant to be- frowns upon take outs and all you can eats.

Ah yes- Weight Watchers. I’m paying to be told how fat I am each Wednesday. You’re probably familiar with the set up; foods are given a prescribed amount of points (depending how delicious and terrible they are for you. The more delicious, the higher the Points value seems to be the correlation at present) and in turn the member (me) is given a set amount of points to enjoy daily based on their weight, age and height. You can ‘spend’ the points however you want (this is where it’s incredibly flexible and allows you to slim while having a life). So yes, I’ve rejoined in a bid to fit into the wedding dress I bought  two sizes two small. The day is creeping up and I’m starting to wonder if what I had thought was ambitious (“set yourself a goal, it’ll spur you on“) was just plain foolish. But if nothing else the trauma of having to be weighed in front of softly spoken Dorothy (the WW Leader) every Wednesday night should scare me into not cheating. I lost an entire pound last week- Peter Kay’s I could shit a pound sketch rang in my head as Dorothy recorded the achievement in my Little Book of Weight Shame and told me it’s a step in the right direction. Saying that, with 31 weeks to fit into the dress, I’ll take a pound a week over nothing.
My favourite thing about WW so far is probably Dorothy. She’s older and tells motivational tales about how food shouldn’t be a reward and introduced the group to a new type of vegetable called Butternut Squash last week. She told her husband it was some kind of modern mutation of suede. He didn’t like it- he doesn’t like anything newfangled, apparently. Her sign off is “hope to see a little bit less of you next week” which is camp and fabulous and means I don’t want to let her down.
So we went to carvery instead of for a chinese or a KFC or anything worse. While we were there I noticed that Toby Carvery is now open on Christmas day- a real steal at £42.99 a head. Only a thirty seven pound mark up on their usual carvery which offers turkey year-round.
I was a bit grumpy when we arrived having developed a cold overnight. As we speak I sit red-nosed, post-lemsip and with a growing number of snotty tissues on my lap. I can only estimate at my number of sneezes today (six hundred) and we sat down to something which would have maddened me on an ordinary day, but simply infuriated me in my sorry state.
A few weeks ago under the Buzzfeed header of something along the lines of “The 30 most Meta things that have ever happened” I read something- I do at this point have to admit that I don’t know what Meta means. Anyway, it was a snap of a pre-teen playing a bowling game on an Ipad at bowling. It was meant to be funny but I thought it was pretty sad. I have a real bugbear about kids having to be bribed with an iphone (or similar). 
So of course in my cold-ridden state we were sat adjacent to a middle class would-be yummy-mummy (had it not been for her terrible shoes) and “Auntie Lydia” who addressed the stroppy toddler in the high chair as Poppet for the duration. The kid tantrummed so she asked for its dessert (I mumbled that I wouldn’t have been allowed it had I not finished my main) before creating again following completion of the banana and custard. 
Cue 30 minutes of nursery rhymes from Itunes with Mummy and Auntie Lydia singing and dancing loudly and obnoxiously. Pair this with an actual head restraint while calpol was administered and I was losing my patience (I think I required the calpol more than the little Poppet, unless it was prescribed for brattiness)3 I at this point vowed that when i have a toddler they will know how to behave at the table (and in general) and an Iphone won’t double up as a pacifier.
And I hear your cries of “don’t go to a family restaurant then”. And as soon as I can afford an adult only one, I won’t. Until then please have your children behave like a young me; just the right balance of cute, gappy toothed and precocious. Or prevent me from getting a cold and being grumpy.


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