If you've lived in France, you're probably familiar with a little place called Ladurée and their legendary macaron. Sweet and chewy, with a gooey filling (oh, my mouth is filling with saliva), macarons cannot be resisted.
Ladurée has since come to London and its macarons have spread wide and far to many French bakeries across the city. So when my husband's co-worker bought him a dozen flavoured macarons from Paul for his birthday, I did what had to be done. I ate them.
To clarify, I only ate ten. Being the nice wife that I am, I left him two. That's generous, right?
To make matters worse, I was supposedly on a 'detox' -- I'd earlier sworn off bread and other carbs on Twitter, hoping my public statement would fuel my willpower. It didn't. The macarons sang their siren song all the way from kitchen and after the heady taste of just one, I had to go back for more. And more. And more... until only two remained. My logic: the faster they're eaten, the faster I can forget about them and their tempting surgery ways.
How does this relate to writing? It doesn't. But I'm hoping a public confession will ease my guilt and pain at consuming whatever percentage 10/12 represents of my husband's present (yes, my Maths is just that bad). I could buy some more. But since I'd probably eat them too, it's not really worthwhile.
So I appeal to you, my blogging friends near and far: what should I do to make up for this mandible mishap?