V is for Vimto

The Other Half likes to joke (I assume he is joking, anyway) that I have a bit of an addictive habit.

It’s not drugs, alcohol or smoking. It’s not biting my nails (the mere thought of it sets my teeth on edge, even if I did used to partake on the odd occasion when I was a child). It’s not even collecting shoes or handbags, something that I am given to understand is an allowable obsession for those of the female persuasion.

No, my addiction is not any of the above. Actually, what I apparently spend all the child benefit on is Vimto*.

There is just something great about it. It’s refreshing, its a nice colour, and it tastes lovely. The bottle is just the right size to last a day week and it’s generally on offer for a reasonable price in Iceland.

I try to convince myself that subsisting on water is a good alternative, but it just isn’t the same.

I don’t appear to be alone, either. Taking Bubby D to a playdate the other day, when the hostess asked who would like what to drink, the resounding answer from every single mum was ‘Vimto!’.

There must be some lack of sleep remedying, headache-from-howling-baby lessening, nose-assaulted-by-stinky-nappy appeasing ingredient in it. That’s the only reason I can think of why I *just*can’t*stop* drinking it!

*Not actually true. I do spend some of it on cake and chocolate too…