The bad thing about baking cookies is that you know exactly what goes into them. And the guilt when you sink your teeth into one of those sugar-fat bombs is tremendous. I've been punishing myself by eating the awful product of my seemingly retarded baking skills. However, although the texture of my cookies is not unlike that of fractured meteorite rocks, the taste is rather charming. It grows on you. Much like the way an ugly baby grows on its mother.

So now, I have vowed to eat healthy for the weeks to come. Repentance is key to a torrid affair with the oven. It will be salads and fruit for me from now. Until the day I get seduced once again by the allure of the rolling pin, I will be a humble weight-watcher. Hello Sarah Ferguson.