Around this time of year, whether because of the turn in the weather, or the rush of homesickness from not having seen my mum for two months, my consumption of “snack foods” really hits its peak. Snack foods are inescapable. I’m talking crisps, biscuits, sweets, those little versions of  biscuits that pretend to be sweets because they’re in a bag, cereal, chocolate. My dependence on Kinder Beaunos has taken over my life. Now nothing tastes right unless it’s filled with a sickly hazelnut mousse.

After spending summer conscientiously eating dried fruit, nuts and fake crisps (I’m looking at you snack-a-jack minis), that desire to feel ill and guilty after every meal is back with a vengeance. Those long displays of Dip Dabs and discount kettle chips they have running alongside the queues in shops? They were made specifically to trap me. I arrive at the till, arms heaving and eyes crazed, shove a £10 note into the cashiers face and flee into the night in a cloud of sherbet.

As you can tell, my diet and I are not completely in tune with each other. But we’re managing, we’re making do. We’re getting along just fine. Then into this satisfactory arrangement comes an ugly presence. The words “Great to Share” linger over me like a judgemental relative, solidifying my shame into one nifty marketing phrase.

I have a real issue with the portion control imposed upon me by the pointless words printed on packets. Oi, Cadburys, you’ve made the Dairy Milk now piss off. You have no business telling me how much of it is acceptable to eat in one sitting. Those Pringle adverts where it’s a group of attractive people all sharing a tube at a party? RIDICULOUS. The only way to enjoy Pringles is alone in a dark room, with scissors nearby to hack open the tube when you can no longer reach your pudgy hand to the bottom.

And then you get the unmitigated disgrace that is “Fun Size”. That’s not fun! I’m not having fun! You mean five Maltesers in a packet the size of a baby’s fist. The fist that a baby is shaking in anger because even it wants more Maltesers because five is not enough Maltesers. Since when was having having less of something considered more fun? I’ll try that logic on my tutors. ‘Oh this essay isn’t under the word count. It’s FUN SIZE!’ Don’t worry everyone, think you’re not having enough sex? WRONG. You’re having a FUN SIZE sex.

We get enough judgement and stress about our eating habits from the media, our friends, our rapid weight-gain, our doctors. We don’t need the food itself acting like we’re doing it wrong. It’s not like the dietary information, which, let’s be honest, I should probably be checking. These little additions are totally pointless: nobody appreciates their input. So ignore the slogans and have a good, self-depreciating laugh about refusing to share a share-bag of Minstrels. Because the only acceptable portion for you in this world is the portion you choose for yourself. Up to and including that phase where you have to lie down and not move in case you vomit. Naturally.

Jen Pritchard