The Freshers' fifteen: A warning
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My calorie fascist mum is a marketers dream. She loves words like 'organic' and 'wholesome' and will but anything with a green light on the packaging. At home, I had never been exposed to the charms of junk food and lived a blissful slim existence full of fibre and 'super fruits' (which are no relation to Clark Kent, I am led to believe). Before I arrived at University I had never really properly cooked for myself. I mean, I had done the usual novelty things, a few fairy cakes, a burnt pancake or two on pancake day. But it never had been necessary for my survival before.The words 'self catered' meant very little indeed. Freshers week was like being on holiday, we whipped up what we could but no one really cared. Yet I soon realised I was solely responsible for my own shopping list and what followed was a deep dark journey of discovery of the junk food underworld. Suddenly I could buy anything I wanted. So, fatally, I did. I actually bought those pies in a can which could survive two nuclear wars and have a sell by date not before your 97th birthday. On the eve of the freshers ball I ate TWO pints of Ben and Jerry's ice cream with a fork (if your quick enough, it works). I was a woman out of control. Who knew you could have a jam roly poly delivered to your door at 1am? Thanks to the kind folks at Krispys take away for making that dream possible.
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