Mmm...chocolatey

I am my own worst friend.¹

Since moving to Whetstone, I have made great use of the Waitrose directly across the road from the Athenaeum Club. Now amongst all the goodies they sell, the chiefest and most fair is their own brand of white chocolate². It has none of the overt sweetness of Cadbury's white chocolate, and is made with 100% cocoa butter³.

On closer inspection, it seems that there are several subsets within 100% cocoa butter, and here I believe that I have discovered the reason the stuff is so satisfying, and why, ultimately I must wean myself off of the delightful confection evil stuff. Every 100g of cocoa butter is effectively 34g of lard. Flavoured lard to be sure, but still lard.

Fecking Hull.

All this money wasted on genetically modified vegetables and animals. C'mon guys, stop breeding mice with human ears. Make me a lettuce that looks, tastes and feels like a steak. Or white chocolate.



¹To quote Dave Cousins of Strawbs fame.
²I should like to point out here and now, that there are no 'supremacy' issues here. I am quite happy to give equal belly space to Bournville plain chocolate, that ebon delight of the taste buds. Just so you know.
³Presumably albinio cocoa butter, since their dark chocolate makes the same claim.

Mmm...chocolatey

I am my own worst friend.¹

Since moving to Whetstone, I have made great use of the Waitrose directly across the road from the Athenaeum Club. Now amongst all the goodies they sell, the chiefest and most fair is their own brand of white chocolate². It has none of the overt sweetness of Cadbury's white chocolate, and is made with 100% cocoa butter³.

On closer inspection, it seems that there are several subsets within 100% cocoa butter, and here I believe that I have discovered the reason the stuff is so satisfying, and why, ultimately I must wean myself off of the delightful confection evil stuff. Every 100g of cocoa butter is effectively 34g of lard. Flavoured lard to be sure, but still lard.

Fecking Hull.

All this money wasted on genetically modified vegetables and animals. C'mon guys, stop breeding mice with human ears. Make me a lettuce that looks, tastes and feels like a steak. Or white chocolate.



¹To quote Dave Cousins of Strawbs fame.
²I should like to point out here and now, that there are no 'supremacy' issues here. I am quite happy to give equal belly space to Bournville plain chocolate, that ebon delight of the taste buds. Just so you know.
³Presumably albinio cocoa butter, since their dark chocolate makes the same claim.

Umpire

Here I go again, like a broken record, but I’m hot: damned hot, and I’m sick of it.

I am finding it hard to concentrate between wiping my forehead and rattling my shirt collar in a vain effort to get air moving between it and my skin. Things have improved since I hit the office and its blessed air-conditioning.

I think the problem with my concentration is primarily down to the silence. It’s eerie, and I’m very much unused to it. Even the customary Magic Roundabout theme tune that kicks in when I’m daydreaming has stopped. It’s not fair. And the voices. Normally they argue and argue, goading me on to world domination^TM, but they’ve stopped bickering and organised a barbecue instead. So now I have to sit here at work while my psyche holds a party and downs a few beers. To make things worse, I’m sure I can hear the steak sizzling and smell cooking.

It’s probably just that loose wire again.

There was a bloke on the Tube this morning, a chap of about twenty-five, dressed in a pale cream linen suit, complete with matching waistcoat and Panama hat. Very dapper, if a little out of place. I guess he was on his way to Wimbledon, or perhaps a cricket match. Other than being the best dressed person in the carriage, he was mainly notable for the fact that he seemed to be being held up by his suit. Linen usually crumples in that Sidney Greenstreet fashion, but in this case, it was the bloke who had crumpled in the face of his own sartorial elegance. I got the distinct impression that it was probably the clothing that wanted a day out, and the poor chap was there largely as a delivery mechanism for his jacket and hat.

Look, this is what happens when the old melon overheats; I can’t help it. I’m off to try and do some work.

Umpire

Here I go again, like a broken record, but I’m hot: damned hot, and I’m sick of it.

I am finding it hard to concentrate between wiping my forehead and rattling my shirt collar in a vain effort to get air moving between it and my skin. Things have improved since I hit the office and its blessed air-conditioning.

I think the problem with my concentration is primarily down to the silence. It’s eerie, and I’m very much unused to it. Even the customary Magic Roundabout theme tune that kicks in when I’m daydreaming has stopped. It’s not fair. And the voices. Normally they argue and argue, goading me on to world domination^TM, but they’ve stopped bickering and organised a barbecue instead. So now I have to sit here at work while my psyche holds a party and downs a few beers. To make things worse, I’m sure I can hear the steak sizzling and smell cooking.

It’s probably just that loose wire again.

There was a bloke on the Tube this morning, a chap of about twenty-five, dressed in a pale cream linen suit, complete with matching waistcoat and Panama hat. Very dapper, if a little out of place. I guess he was on his way to Wimbledon, or perhaps a cricket match. Other than being the best dressed person in the carriage, he was mainly notable for the fact that he seemed to be being held up by his suit. Linen usually crumples in that Sidney Greenstreet fashion, but in this case, it was the bloke who had crumpled in the face of his own sartorial elegance. I got the distinct impression that it was probably the clothing that wanted a day out, and the poor chap was there largely as a delivery mechanism for his jacket and hat.

Look, this is what happens when the old melon overheats; I can’t help it. I’m off to try and do some work.