A Herald business story this week carried the news that Krispy Kreme doughnuts are about to infiltrate our shores.
For heaven's sake, stop them at the border! These sugary, deep-fried crumbs from Satan's table are the products of a twisted American mind.
I had never heard of KKs until
I visited friends in London a few years ago. Unbeknown to me, my friends had become hooked on the luscious little rings of aerated fat - and like countless addicts before them, they wanted to drag others into the pit.
At the time, I was a slim-hipped, teetotalling devotee. However, when my evil friends led me into Harrods and pointed me at the Krispy Kreme machine, it was all over.
A few weeks later, I was 5kg heavier, the button had gone from the waistband of my Sass and Bides and my last purchase before flying home was a pair of supersized track pants to prevent my spleen being squeezed out my nose during 26 hours in economy.
Oh, sure, there was wine and cheese involved too, but I blame the Krispy Kremes. I'm warning you - those suckers are more addictive than P.
