Cold Comfort

Daddy-Bear!? Daddy-Bear!? Where are you?

I heard the good lady shouting over the spitting and sizzling from the pan. I ignored her calls and concentrated on the pan before me which was full of bacon and sausages. They were browning nicely.

The kitchen stank of cooked pork like a cyclists underpants after a race. The toaster popped and I walloped everything onto a plate which I then took into the lounge.

The good lady came in as I was biting into my first gigantic meaty banger. It should be noted that a banger in the UK is a sausage and not always necessarily a man's penis.

Wow, Daddy-Bear. That is quite the breakfast you have there!

She gazed at the pile of charred flesh and toasted bread on my plate.

I grunted at her like a Lancashire pig and concentrated on the task at hand.

She shook her head knowingly and left me to it.

Later on she came into the lounge. The Xbox was on and I was ball deep in Fallout 4. Around me was strewn lots of empty crisp packets and sweet wrappers.

Daddy-Bear, can you collect the little lady from school? The wee guy is sleepy and I will have to put him down for a nap.

I paused the game and glared at her as if she were a rat that had just crawled out of my arse.

Hmmph, s'pose so.

I said huffily as if I would much rather live in a video game than in this drab existence I found myself in.

You will have to leave now?

I rolled my eyes and groaned heavily attempting to roll myself up from my chair. It proved slightly harder than I thought given that I had spent the entire day eating shit. It should be noted that shit in the UK often means junk food and not actual shit because I don't think I could eat a lot of that.

The good lady placed a hand on my chest as I attempted to waddle past her.

Daddy-Bear, comfort eating isn't the answer you know?

I growled through the biscuit I had managed to sneak into my mouth.

I'm not comfort eating? Why would I be comfort eating.

I grouched as I tried to squeeze around her.

You have been off work for two weeks and start back tomorrow, would that be why?

She said, quite sympathetically.

Rubbish. I'm not bothered about going back to work.

I pushed past and grabbed a chocolate bar on my way out the door.

Hmmph, comfort eating. How dare she? I most certainly was not. Work Schmurk, it didn't bother me. Not one bit.

I collected the little lady and came back home to continue my mammoth mission to eat everything in the house.

Later near bedtime, I heard the good lady calling over the spitting and sizzling from the pan.

I ignored her calls and concentrated on the task at hand, groaning as yet another fetid something flubbered out of me.

Damn she might have been right, maybe I had been comfort eating.