A few months ago, before I turned 28 and my life became one extended tapas-fuelled speed date, when I was undergoing the kind of emotional turmoil that led me to write about coffee and alcohol because I couldn’t actually eat at the time, I bought a dress. It’s a beautiful red dress – the kind of dress that made me happy for the half hour it took me to buy it, which was no mean feat at the time.
What I failed to consider during this moment of retail therapy, was that my not-eating days were numbered, and that as soon as they came to an end (i.e. relatively quickly – this is me we’re talking about here), said red dress would become inexplicably tighter, and not look quite as good as it did when I bought it. In fact, buttons are straining, seams are stretching, and I’m starting to get a little worried. You see, in two weeks’ time, I have a wedding to go to, and I’ve resolved to wear the red dress. Not one to be defeated by a little haberdashery, I am determined to fit into it. But a foodie on a diet is like a whore in a nunnery: incompatible.
I have just eaten Weetabix for lunch. Desperate measures indeed…