I was lying in bed, feeling sick. It's been a while since I've had that feeling that my stomach doesn't quite know where to put itself, and it's just shifting uncomfortably trying to find a position, somewhere inbetween my liver, spleen and kidneys, where it can just kick off its shoes and properly relax.
It kept poking me in the oesophagus and saying to me, 'Well, my friend, do you think your plan will work?'
'My plan?' I asked, rolling over onto my other side to see if that would help.
'You know what I mean,' it growled, like Ray Winstone, 'your dumbass plan to eat all the remaining calories in the house so you could get on with your life and your diet. That plan.'
'I don't recall,' I said, 'you mentioning anything about any dumbass plan when you were getting all excited about finishing off that chocolate bar that you got Denise for Christmas, or when you encouraged me to sneakily eat a bit of bread and cheese while you were make a cup of tea - thought you'd got out of that habit, didn't you. Or how about when you thought you'd just have a little glass of Port? Did you think it was a dumbass plan then, you weasel?'
Ray Winstomach got my liver in a headlock and punched it a few times.
'Yeah, yeah, you freakin' muppet, you blame me, but how about you take a good hard look at him up there.'
My brain was lounging around on the pillow looking kind of sheepish. 'Me,' he purred silkily, 'the 12th Earl of the Duchy of Lancaster, alone in a kitchen with a fridge full of cheese? What were you thinking?'