I can't stop eating chocolate HobNobs. I know how I react to chocolate HobNobs, that they are my nutritional kryptonite and I am Not To Be Trusted in the same room as them. Yet even armed with this certain knowledge, I bought some from the shop only moments ago. The man behind the counter selfishly sold them to me, in spite of the fact that I had obviously meant to pick up a small packet of walnuts and an improving broadsheet.
I am Home Alone. The cat is making himself scarce, presumably for fear of being taken for a HobNob and swallowed whole. Ben is down South. Spye (housemate) was around, but now isn't. I am pleased, as nobody should have to witness this biscuit frenzy. He was downstairs smoking and talking about washing up, but now he is quiet. No washing up has been undertaken.
It's quiet. I have to work early tomorrow, then rehearse, so an early night is an excellent thing to have. Really, though, I want to stay up late, eating biscuits and watching bad horror films. This would lead to a night of clutching wakefully at the duvet and staring tensely into the dark, while the cat waited for the perfect moment to give me a heart attack by jumping softly onto the bed.
I will eat one more HobNob, then go to sleep. The sugar will send me right off.