I, Julie Adams, bloody well love my job.
And no - I haven't got a job as one of those larger ladies who eat cake on webcam for the freakish feeders of the internet. Though god knows I'm still very open to the idea... Eat a packet of jammy dodgers for a fiver you say? Pass me the bloody packet let's give these thighs some thunder.
Well - more thunder I guess you could say...
Conversely I have now somehow acquired my dream job as a baker. An apron claded creator of all things sweet and sinful. Weight Watcher's elzebub if you will. Because after all - you don't make friends with salad. Gillian McKeith can vouch for that first hand.
And with my new venture into the culinary word I've finally decided to accept the fact that the closest I'll ever get to a thigh gap is if by developing rickets. If I look like I enjoy eating my own cake - people might enjoy eating it too, right?
That and having a chest that Jack Sparrow himself could find without a map renders excercise hazardous. The reason I know this? I attempted my first jog in about six months the other day - the end result? I returned home panting like a moustached serial killer and sweating in places I didn't know existed. Did someone say bikini body?
That's if you like yours with built-in bingo wing arm bands.
So I'll continue my awkward shambles of a life with the added label of 'baker' to my current list of 'gin drinking ginger' and 'that crazy girl with the tits'.
But hey - if I die tomorrow at least they'll remember me. It may not be in as a lady of class and composure, but gingers can't be choosers.
Until next time - xo.
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| Some of my 'buns'. (Bracing myself for the puns...) |
