‘You’ve got to stop eating those croissants,’ my parents tell me. I know they’re right, but have they seen the croissants? As crisp as a Hilton bed sheet and golden like the sun.
They caution that they’re a waste of money, and I get it. In the early stages of my addiction I forked out £1.50 apiece; then the coffee shop grew hungry for more. £1.75 they demanded. That’s £8.75 a working week. Think of a month’s worth. (You do the maths – because I can’t).
I try not to think about the cost. I stuff the pastry into my mouth and close my eyes, the pain crumbling away. Just like all the things I spend money on. I purchase stuff I don’t need all the time. Last month it was a sketchbook at the Barbican after I felt inspired by Brutalist architecture.
For years I’ve had enormous remorse over my unnecessary spending, believing myself to be the naughty one of my friends.
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