Comfort, it's about more than eating cake

I don't like Thursdays. I think it's because I'm at work from Monday through Wednesday and I abhor being uprooted. I like the routine of working in the office, the distinction between being at home or in my place of employment. Having to unplug the computer and then fix it up again at home annoys me, even if it isn't that big a deal. Working at home has never appealed to me, there are too many distractions and I hate bringing the office into the home. When Friday comes around I feel better; I've suddenly grown more accustomed to being in the garden room, I have a plan of sorts and I can't wait for the day to end as I know it's the weekend and I haven't got much to do other than ride my bike, take walks around West Sussex and enjoy a snack somewhere, possibly in a National Trust cafe where there are huge slabs of coffee and walnut cake, large cappuccinos and other delights. It's good to start with something savoury, like a bowl of soup or a Cornish pasty, and then move on to the cake and then, of course, walk it off on some trek or other before checking out the shop.

The cake might be described (rightly) as comfort eating. Now there's a phrase. Is it, perhaps, a cop out, an excuse, a way of deflecting the reality: that I'm a greedy pig. "I'm comfort eating," I might say and everybody lets me off the hook when they should be berating me for stuffing my face for no reason. What is the reason? It's the word 'comfort' that kind of defuses the situation and means I don't necessarily have to explain myself. People simply assume I have some kind of issue that I don't wish to discuss and leave it there, and I'm free to continue stuffing my face.

I guess you could say that I've always had a problem with food. And by that I mean that I'm always hungry and could eat all day. Alright, I exaggerate, but leave me alone with a packet of chocolate digestives and the lot will be gone within an hour or two. I remember feeling proud of myself as a child for being able to eat an entire loaf of Mother's Pride, a white, packaged loaf from days of old. I could literally eat the lot. It's the same with anything. While I force myself to be happy with just two slices of toast and marmalade in the morning, the reality is I could eat more, let's say six slices. When it comes to somebody leaving a box of Celebrations or Miniature Heroes on the table, I could finish the lot, albeit selectively (there are some I don't like); it's the same with Quality Street. Put it this way, I'll certainly have more than my fair share and then I'll start inwardly berating myself for being so greedy, I'll start saying things (to myself) like, "Right, that's it, from tomorrow no more bread, buns or biscuits," and then remember I'd forgotten chocolates. "And chocolates!" It might make me feel better for a while, but when tomorrow comes, if somebody's left some mini Millionaires Shortbreads on the table, again, I'll have more than my fair share and berate myself afterwards.

Where proper food is concerned, if there's seconds, I'll be there. If you don't want that potato, I'll eat it, and on it goes and while I'm always thinking about changing my mindset, I never do. There was a time, however, when I did make a difference. I decided to go on a diet, this was back in 2014. I allowed myself just three slices of bread per day and I didn't eat between meals. Within a few months I started to lose weight. I went down to 12 stone (from almost 14) and I felt good about life. People noticed I'd lost weight and now I find myself wishing I had the same determination as I did back then, but seemingly I don't. I blame the pandemic and lockdown. Suddenly, overnight almost, I found myself ditching all the old rules. Having not eaten a wrapped snack for years I started enjoying the odd Twix, Wispa Gold or Bounty bar, it seemed as if all bets were off and because I was cycling daily I figured it didn't matter. Perhaps it doesn't, but the whole situation nags at me. I'm always going to give up the following day but then fall foul of temptation when somebody's birthday in the office means custard doughnuts and a tin of Roses.

So that word 'comfort' rears its cushioned face that smells of fabric conditioner and brings to mind fresh bed sheets and lying in until late, something I simply cannot do anymore. I no longer enjoy going to bed and leave it to the last possible minute (normally around 11.30pm or thereabouts). When I awake I have to get out of bed immediately, whatever the time, there's no point hanging around. I watch enviously as the characters of television advertisements enjoy the comforts of their beds and spring out of them with beaming faces looking forward to what the day might bring them. Comfort. Comfort viewing. Comfort eating. The last time I enjoyed being in bed was when I had COVID. There's a strong implication that I need comfort and instead of finding it in a good night's sleep I take refuge in the sweet shop or the cafe where I always order the pastry or the almond croissant or the Millionaire's Shortbread or the apple pie and custard, foodstuffs that take me back to the days of innocence and, therefore, make me feel better about myself.

Some say it's boredom, that I'm fed up with certain elements of my life, bored shitless even, and try to forget about them through eating, stuffing my face. There might be some truth in that. Something I love is a slice of cake on a Sunday afternoon watching a movie, a little bit of escapism. Anything that takes me away from whatever it is I'm running from. It's all about losing myself in some shape or form. I yearn for a real fire so that I can allow the flames to hypnotise me, but everything is so difficult, money is tight and then I find myself getting frustrated and angry and in need of a chocolate bar or a chocolate brioche bun or a small carton of Ambrosia Devon Custard.

I wish I lived near the sea. I used to fantasise about owning a house on the beach with a garden path running up the centre of a huge lawn towards a gate, beyond which is the beach and the waves. The sea provides the ultimate in comfort. I think I would feel cured if I lived by the sea. Going there once in a while by car is not enough and besides, after a while the thought of the journey home starts to nag at me, although I'd feel better about it if I knew there was a real fire waiting to be started.

Perhaps it's neither comfort nor boredom but the need for relaxation, the need to switch off once in a while, the desire to escape, get off the merry-go-round. I wouldn't mind spending a week in a monastery - or a mental asylum - with nothing but my own thoughts for company, but I'll settle for a coffee shop. If time permitted, I could sit in a Caffe Nero or a Costa or a Starbucks for hours reading or writing. The coffee shop offers up another world, and that's what it's all about, finding other worlds away from the mundanity of the world I live in. In short, it's the need for space, the need for time and big horizons, cloudless skies and endless seas.