Meeting Trish

Call it a mid-life crisis if you like, but married or not, I'm having fantasies about another woman.

Her name's Trish. She's blonde, and Irish, and as far as I know, she lives in Paris.

I met her properly just last night, and I wasn't looking my best - I was pale, and sweaty, and, as it happened, butt-naked and farty.

Trish was making French raspberry tart, and as she explained about the making of creme patisserie, and multiple macaroons, and wonderful early-morning Parisian bread, I began to let my mind run away with me, and the fantasies came thick and fast. I imagined pushing her gently down, and stretching out her arms...and hammering the nails through her hands, and feet, and pulling her up and grunting in satisfaction as she dangled there, bleeding like jam from a dougnut.

Erm...
Ahem...It's not often I get fantasies of crucifying people, I should say. Most of the time, I'm pretty laid back. Be who you are, think what you like, say what you will, I'm fine. Well, that's either laid back or intensely self-absorbed, I'm not entirely sure.

Annnnd fine, if you really go into it, I don't actually have anything against Trish Deseine. It was simply bad timing that she popped up on my TV screen presenting a show about Parisian patisserie during one of my 'special' moments, as I happened to be halfway through a ten-mile cycle. If I'd flipped the channel, I daresay I'd have had fantasies about immolating Raymond Blanc in Armagnac, or strapping Michel Roux Jr to four horses and slapping them all on the ass...

Actually, come to think of it, I get that one regularly, sugar craving or no sugar craving.

Ahem...where was I? Oh yeah, crucifying Trish. It's fortunate really that my random fantasies of battering John Torode over the head with a leg of lamb, or sewing up Gordon Ramsay's mouth and giving him a duck liver pate enema, or even gently pan-frying Rick Stein with garlic and onions, are confined to people to whom I have no access, and - as I say, with the exception of Michel Roux Jr - only tend to plague me during my sugar-deprived, exercising, why-the-Hell-am-I-doing-this moments. Curiously, there are very few women to whom I want to do culinary harm in those moments. I mean, Delia, obviously, for her wretched sponges and her lime obssession, but not really Fanny Craddock - too scary! - and not Julia Child - simply too good - and, in case you're wondering, absolutely not, ever, my wife, who of course, while I was sweating my ass off on the bike, actually had control of the remote.

Maybe there's a spa or a rehab I should go into to deal with these occasional sugar-crazed homicidal tendencies? Whaddaya reckon? Celery Therapy and Flagellation? Tomato Juice Baths and Tofu Wraps?

Nah, screw it, it's not worth it. I'll just keep fantasising...