"No More Chocolate—I Mean It!" By Distracted Rating: PG-13 Genre: Sincerest Form of Flattery Challenge, humor Disclaimer: The characters aren’t mine. The format isn’t mine. I do have some chocolate like this, though. It’s unbelievable. Summary: A personal journal. You’ll have to guess whose, just like you have to guess the author I’m trying to imitate. I’m just evil that way. : P Saturday 1 April Chocolates—6 (Not Good), Alcohol—2 (Only sherry at one of Mum’s unending garden parties so doesn’t really count), cigarettes—2 (I always smoke when I drink!), situps—10 (Very Good, belly hurts like blazes now), New shoes bought—none (VERY good!) It’s been a six chocolate day. Not just the bitty ones with the hard chewy centers that last forever so it makes you think you’ve had more than you’ve actually had, either. (Those are quite lovely for dieting. Really.) No, it was a six creamy hazelnut nougat filled melt-in-your-mouth mouthfuls of dark, rich, chocolate goodness kind of day. Firstly, Mum insisted that I accompany her to a garden party held by the wife of the local magistrate. She likewise insisted that I wear the dress that Great-Aunt Gloria sent me for my birthday last spring, a sleeveless floral number which Mum said “enhances my attributes and minimizes minor figure flaws”, by which she meant that the print is so obnoxiously loud that it hides my squashy bits. Secondly, she paraded me about to every woman there with comments such as, “My daughter would so enjoy meeting your son!” and “Did you know that my daughter is a very accomplished cook?” (Mum will insist on calling me a cook, even though I’ve a diploma from the finest Cordon Bleu school in Paris.) Mum sometimes forgets that we’re in Malaysia now and not in England, though. Half the ladies there wore the hijab. The looks they gave me when I arrived in that dress with my head uncovered! Their sons could have been over fifty and never married and still I would never have been allowed within sight of them. Living in a Muslim country has its drawbacks for a simple Church of England girl like me, especially with a Mum like mine who’s oblivious. I’m resisting the urge to eat more chocolate tonight. Mustn’t overindulge. Mally’s coming home. Tomorrow. And he’s bringing friends. Single friends. He said two commanders, no less. That’s even better than captains. They aren’t required to go down with the ship, you see. Much better if you happen to be married to them. Sunday 2 April Chocolates—none (You’ll soon see why! Grrr!), Alcohol—2 double martinis (Shaken, not stirred—to make up for no chocolate), cigarettes—don’t remember exactly (Kept smoking the damned things until the martinis took effect, don’t recall much after that), situps—10 (I’d best start now), new shoes bought—three pair (They were on sale. I needed them. Hell, it’s better than comfort eating, right?) Mally’s here. I’m so ticked off at him, now! He could have mentioned that one of his commanders had the body of a goddess and the other one spent all of his time drooling over the first. I spent the entire day attempting to get young, blonde and positively dishy to notice my existence. He was polite, I’ll grant him that. And the accent! Oh. My. Lord. Fortunately, he didn’t seem to notice me melting into an oozy puddle at his feet. Miss High and Mighty Vulcan noticed, though. I didn’t think Vulcans got jealous. If she wasn’t, she was doing an excellent imitation of the green-eyed monster, that’s all I have to say. And he was all eyes for her. How could he help it? She was a Vulcan, after all. At first, I really thought that perhaps I still had a chance. Earlier this evening, before the martinis, I decided to take a stroll down the corridor toward the guest rooms. Catch a man alone, without distractions, and you never know what might happen, right? Malaysian houses have thin walls—good for ventilation in the heat and all that rot. I doubt the two of them realized exactly how thin. It had to be her in his room. I checked her room (After listening to them moan, sigh, and gasp for a little bit, of course. A girl’s got to get her jollies where she can find them, right?) and she wasn’t in it. That’s when I went shopping. Then I came home and drank myself stupid. I’ve made a resolution. No more chocolate—I mean it! I need to get rid of the excess squashy bits and find me a man. Bloody hell! What’s she got that I haven’t got? At least I can cook! End

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