A little devil giggles as it drags my fingers to the menu. Christmas pudding, mince pies, chocolate, elaborate iced desserts. Tap, tappity, tap.
Common-sense tuts. ‘You don’t want that.’
Oh, yes, I indeedy do.
Do I? Get behind me Satan. ‘And push,’ jeers a pesky caterpillar nibbling the leaves of good intentions, conjuring tastes and smells, making me ache with desire.
I snap.
Get back where you both belong.
‘You seem to know best,’ they hiss.
I do, keeping the healthy choices to counteract mouth-watering sin.