A Sandwich, Not a Referendum

I’m sat here now, not remotely hungry, toying with the idea of the cafe for breakfast tomorrow.

Bacon, sausage, black pudding, on proper farmhouse bread. I haven’t had one in so long it actually hurts a bit to think about it.

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My stomach isn’t asking for this. That part’s obvious. This is taste, plain and simple — the specific flavour of it, the texture, the thing I remember and haven’t had in months. It’s not the sitting-down-at-the-cafe part doing the pulling. It’s the sandwich itself.

So this isn’t the usual hunger-versus-want puzzle I keep running into. I already know which one this is. I just want it.

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What I’m trying to do differently is not turn tomorrow’s decision into a referendum on anything. Not a lapse if I go. Not a reward for getting to 199 lb. Not a test of whether I’m still serious about this. Just a man who fancies a bacon, sausage and black pudding sandwich, who goes and has one.

If I wake up tomorrow and the urge has passed, fine, I won’t go. If it’s still there, I’ll go, eat it properly, enjoy it, and get on with the rest of my day exactly as planned.

Either way, it doesn’t need to mean anything about how the whole journey’s going. It’s a sandwich. I’m allowed to just want one.