Yesterday I had a pretty intense Power Plate session, so decided to reward myself for all that hard work (20 minutes of it) with a delicious Kit Kat. I hear you shouting at me, telling me I shouldn’t reward myself with chocolate after working out, but hold your horses. I pretty much weigh the same as this packet of TUC biscuits I’m holding so I need as much chocolate as I can get DAMMIT and nobody will stop me!
I am joking of course, I weigh the same as two packets of TUCs.
I was looking forward to eating that Kit Kat, lovingly plucked from the shelf in the prime of its life. It probably shouted “BYE!” to all its other Kit Kat friends, delicately waving its foil fringes at them and looking forward to its adventurous journey through my digestive system. I like to believe that anyway, before it cruelly slipped from my grasp between WH Smiths and Platform 2 at Marylebone Station.
The poor thing probably sat there, waiting for me to come back and pick it up, but I didn’t notice it was missing until I went to retrieve it from what I thought was its hiding place. I stared at my bag like it had eaten it right up itself, tempted to shout “NO” as if disciplining a naughty child and throw the contents across the carriage in a desperate bid to find the missing treat.
I had visions of it running after the train, tripping over obstacles and getting caught in people’s feet. I couldn’t believe it had gone missing between a distance of about 10 metres. Oh Kit Kat, where are you now? I hope you’ve been claimed by someone brilliant who loves you as much as I did, someone who understood the responsibility as soon as they picked you up and someone who appreciated their bloody luck at finding you.
I miss you Kit Kat. I had to eat two Aero yogurts in a row to get over you.