I’ve just come back from a weekend away and, as seems to be a trend for Sunday evenings, it appears that I am not particularly fit to be putting together anything of substance.

And, because I felt like drawing a picture of my raspberry jam toast and wanted to brag about the amount of cheese I’d consumed over the past few days, I decided to document my weekend by way of a food diary.

I feel as though recounting my weekend in this format is both brutally honest but also leaves plenty to the imagination. You have a few straightforward facts from which you can draw your own conclusions, using your own creativity to fill in the gaps. It’s almost like a mental exercise, if you think about it.

I’ve also done it this way because I personally love reading the mundane but thorough details about people’s lives. I find it so engrossing. I mean, there could be a deeply-moving, well-researched article about a topic I’m passionate about in a magazine, but I’ll still get most excited about the various lists some complete stranger makes. I want to know what they spend their money on. I want to read their grocery lists. I want to know how they spend their days – from their morning wee to the final scroll of Instagram before they go to sleep at night. I’m nosy and I assume everyone else in the world thinks like me, so I’m putting out what I would like to read.

So please, enjoy this gastric record of my weekend, for no other reason than casual curiosity. Please note, however, that the times may not be entirely accurate – particularly the ones that are jarringly specific to the minute, instead of being rounded up to multiples of five.

Friday

5.45am: I started the day off right, with bran, oats, walnuts and strawberries with a dollop of yoghurt, and a drizzle of honey. I also had a heart cup of tea, which was oesophagus-scoldingly hot and lightened ever so slightly by a dash of atheistically important milk.

8.45am: Two small chunks of a brownie leftover from someone important’s catered meeting, left in the staff kitchen overnight. I needed something do to distract me from the fact that I’d just left my suitcase – including my laptop – on a bus. Stale shame brownie was better than thinking about someone going through my knickers on the side of a street somewhere.

2.13pm: A single Werther’s Original found on the floor under the desk of the person who sits next to me at work. I’d just spent my lunch hour chasing around my suitcase, so I didn’t have time to eat. I gratefully accepted this carpet lolly, which doubled as my lunch and a celebration of my reunion with the items I’d stupidly left on public transport.

5.27pm: A dinner of an old, old Crunch bar and a packet of plain chippies, hastily bought from the train station vending machines before my ride to Newcastle left.

8.45pm: A second dinner of grazing plate including strawberries, crackers, capsicum dip and a selection of Aldi’s finest cheeses – one called “Mary Valley” that was suspiciously similar to Mercy Valley. I also contributed my leftover chippie crumbs and the crumbled Crunch bar that survived the train journey.

Saturday

9.13am: A cup of tea and two boiled eggs on toast, with fried tomatoes and a few chunks from an avocado I’d brought with me to Newcastle because it was ready to be eaten and would have been a brown pile of yucko by the time I got home. I carried that avocado in my handbag all day on Friday – on the bus to work, on the frantic trip to the bus depot to pick up my lost suitcase, on the frantic trip to get to the train station… Thankfully, it was only slightly bruised.

10am: A foolishly large-sized lukewarm chai latte that I didn’t really need, but wanted to buy so I could pretend I was a coffee drinker like my gracious hosts.

1.20pm: A few drizzles of gourmet infused oils, along with the free, sample-sized hunks of bread provided to soak said oil up.

2.20pm: An assortment of pre-selected presented on unnecessary but nonetheless impressive tower, as well as a brie and cheddar cheeseboard because our party of three was feeling pretty bloody extra after several free wine tastings.

7.23pm: Two sloppy handfuls of san choi bao, which I am too tipsy and too from-regional-Queensland to pronounce properly. A few messy spoonfuls of chicken cashew stir fry and plum beef, eaten between further failed attempts at pronouncing the mincey, leafy entrée.

8.02pm: Almost all of the caramel macadamia fudge I’d bought “for us all to share”.

9pm: The remaining cheeses from the night previous, along with candied fennel seeds which, because they’re said to aid digestion, I hoped would magically undo all the damaged I’d done that day.

Sunday

10am: Two boiled eggs on toast with spinach, mushrooms and a generous dash of “oi, sit dowwwwn” aimed in the direction of the dog who stood just a little too close to the table. The was washed down with two “bucket-sized” mugs of tea.

12.12pm: Numerous glasses of table water gulped down in a fear that my hangover had simply been delayed.

12.34pm: A glass of mulled wine, because I wasn’t driving.

12.42pm: A cauliflower dhal with chicken, because I like vegetarian dishes but I prefer said vegetarian dishes to not actually be vegetarian.

1.56pm: A packet of peanut M&Ms bought as an emergency supply of food in case I became desperate that I promised myself I wouldn’t open until well after my train left the station at about 1.43pm.

6pm: A few spoonfuls of yoghurt, eaten with the fridge door still open.

6.13pm: A stiff cup of tea.

7.30pm: A spoonful of my housemate’s dhal, which she insisted I try.

7.35pm: A few more spoonfuls of my housemate’s dhal, which I “sampled” out of her unattended saucepan as she ate her dinner in the other room.

7.40pm: A few artichoke hearts that I’d transferred into an empty kilo bucket of hummus filled with the leftover oil from two jars of Danish fetta – because the juice the artichokes came in wasn’t really my fave and I had all this leftover oil I didn’t want to waste. I realise that eating drippy, oily artichokes straight out of a bucket might scream “sloppy singleton with no prospects” but I feel my outfit of strawberry slippers, Aristocatpyjama pants and Frozennightie might have already projected my current state.

7.45pm: A cup of tea and two pieces of toast with an obscene amount of butter and raspberry jam. I remind myself that it’s rye bread and not Wonder White, therefore making it a sound dinner choice for a Sunday evening.