When people ask what I got up to at the weekend I rarely go admitting that I laid in bed eating carbs and watched 90’s sitcoms. I usually say something bland like “went for a walk”. I’m not lying. I technically walked to the fridge and back. Every little helps.
Believe it or not my weekend activities are a fully justified hobby. It’s a pleasurable commitment that I like to do in my spare time. It’s like going to football practice or dance classes.
I mean, this hobby shouldn’t provoke the same kind of reaction that saying I spent the weekend partaking in light BDSM with some chums should. But it almost does. To some people visions of crunchy sweat laden bed sheets may be almost, if not more disgusting than visions whips, gimp suits and nipple clamps.
My hobby is not exactly uncultured either. Rather than sampling the fine restaurants and great art exhibits London has to offer I have sampled a plethora of carbs and have now developed a refined palate for crunchy snacks. I know potatoes.