´óÏó´«Ã½

I'm at the doctors so much
they've given me my own parking space,
as I walk to the oven like door, it opens itself and cooks me like I'm a cake its been waiting a lifetime for.
The receptionist has her liquorice all sort smile,
we don't speak, she just lets me sift on through
the sticky toffee pudding carpet to the pastry textured chair
and look disgusted at the meat grease wallpaper.
The doctor calls me in and we regard each other by first name,
he pulls out his jaffa cake stethoscope and places it under my shirt listening to the sickly sweet sound of my heart drip like left over mix into his cake tin ears,
"Craig, I'm afraid you have an eating disorder and it could kill you";
I look on with cupcake concern
and blank out with chocolate digestive tunnel vision.