for breakfast this morning i had a cup of black tea and six (eight?) daim candies. it didn’t have to be that way; i had considered walking up the street into rozelle, to the newly-opened bagel house cafe. when i rode the bus past yesterday the doors had finally been thrown open, and there was plenty of hot, steamy action in the back. but it would have been too indulgent, no? to go out for fresh bagels when there were still three from saturday in the freezer? probably not.

this week past, i’ve eaten my way through toasted fruit bread, blueberry bagels (twice), swiss cheese and tomatoes on toast (that was tuesday, when i thought i should eat something that wasn’t just sugarbread, in preparation for the afternoon’s bloodletting), and yesterday, delicious spelt crepes stuffed with spinach and fetta, and topped with sticky fig jam, at the fair trade coffee company (i had tea).

the day before, breakfast had been the last three profiteroles from the profiterole cake. backtrack: the thursday before good friday, the last day of term, the boy’s staffroom had given him a farewell cake: a dozen or so custard-filled puffs, arranged on a large shortbread biscuit base. the whole structure was covered in chocolate and sprinkled with tiny coloured sugar flowers. oh, and foil-wrapped chocolate eggs strategically positioned in the swirly chocolate border. he got through a couple of profiteroles that night, and then friday, he left it in the fridge when he drove off into the big brown. so there i was, alone in the house with most of a profiterole cake for company. what to do?

it was easier than i thought, a profiterole here, a couple there, throughout the week, though the chocolate was compound, mixed up to have that certain oily consistency that you don’t really object to until it’s too late. you know how it is: you eat two profiteroles, and feel fine about eating the third, and that’s when it wreaks its revenge.