Big time. I made sticky toffee pudding for lunch, as a friend was coming over and well, blokes like a proper pudding, don't they? And I was going to be pushed for time in the morning, then out and not home until noon. So I made it the day before and as I was serving up the main course, I poured the sauce over, put it in the top oven and left it until we'd eaten our salmon with pea risotto (yes, containing butter and Parmesan).
I ate a pretty generous slice, but it was okay, it was factored in, as in I'll live on rice cakes for the rest of the week, so the wagon was keeping rolling along because I'd allowed for it.
This evening, every time I've been into the kitchen, I've eaten a bit. It's the toasted walnuts on top and the general sticky deliciousness. I think I've been doing quite well recently, I haven't been actually dieting but I've been eating very sensibly and moderately without needing to think about it.
I stopped myself eating pudding in the end, though. I cut a slice of Stilton and ate that instead.
Hey, maybe it's the Christmas whisky we broached this evening, but I feel perfectly okay about it. I may have fallen off the wagon, and I know I'll crave sugar for the next few days, but as long as I don't give in and eat any, it won't take long to get over it.
Unfortunately, there is still a lot of Stilton left. And it was a very good one. That, of course, was the Christmas cheese. I seem to be jumping the gun. As well as off the wagon. Hm. Is there another metaphor to do to death, I wonder?