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 It all started this morning when I went to my local bakery to buy my decadent monthly treat. It ended up being about dodgy dudes.

My decadent indulgence is a big cream stick doughnut, with lashings of homemade strawberry jam and enough cream to drown out any guilt that I should have felt for having dared to challenge my body’s right to have an opinion on the matter.

I buy two – one for me and one for my Mum. We sit in the sunroom, Royal Albert teacups in hand, serviettes at the ready and our toes curled up in unison as we delight in our guilty pleasure. It is a lovely wicked indulgence and I have tried to feel bad about it. I truly have. But I don’t care. For about 10 minutes, once a month, we sit there laughing smiling, oohing and aahing about a cream doughnut that makes us forget all the nasty in the world, all the PC rubbish, all the political treason and the misery that is modern-day life.

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