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Whole 30: whole lot of pain or whole lot of yumminess? Part 5

Day thirty-one: Whoops! There was a whole process to reintroducing the non-compliant foods back into my diet? Oh bugger! I had forgotten about that bit. In one day, I had cancelled out all the gut detoxing of the past thirty days. No big deal. I’ll do the Whole 30 again and do the reintroduction properly in thirty-one days time. So… I did. Not a difficult decision when the bunch of carrots swung in front of me included: being at home (sigh), weight loss (six kilos), clear skin (no leprosy aka egg allergy blisters), more energy (so much should not be legal for one 50+ woman), no joint pain (tennis elbow is for cry-babies), working taste buds (still bouncing and singing), a love affair with unprocessed foods, and a folder full of recipes for delectable delights. 

Twelve months later, and you guessed it; she’s back on the Whole 30, this time with the whole household and some family members in Melbourne. We have a group on Messenger where we swap recipes and support each other. Jeanella’s ‘Ta Jean’ sweet potato and butternut pumpkin tagine (sans any actual tagine) has become a staple and some of my son’s contributions have become all-time favourite recipes: braised sirloin steak, pork rashers, chicken nicoise stew… drool drool drool. 

Now, more often than not, my meals are compliant. I rarely eat dairy, sugar, grains or legumes – other than lentils, as my dahl is delicious Darling (and it assists my bowels to perform unplugged). I brew my own kombucha and have 250ml servings when I feel the need for some acidity. And my relationship with alcohol has changed for the better. I’ll have the occasional gin – a top quality gin, of course – with cold tap water, no ice and no condiments. (Professional bar staff appreciate this order. Unprofessional bar staff screw their faces up, ask numerous times ‘are ya sure ya jus’ wan’ gin ‘n warda? From tha tap?’ and will nudge their fellow bar staffers whilst rolling their eyes heavenward before putting the drink on the bar.) A good gin needs no company, I say.

Below are actual entries from my Whole 30 Journal, which I kept for the first six days. (The names are changed to protect myself from the wrath of the actual persons.) I sigh with relief when I read this journal. Hindsight: what a wonderful 20/20 visioned thing! I fully recommend doing the Whole 30 when you are at home with your supportive, loved ones around you for the 30-40 days, as doing the Whole 30 when you’re aboard an emotional rollercoaster is not for the faint-hearted! Though, fear not; I have since recovered to live and learn a great deal more about everything (no future blog spoilers here…). 

My Whole 30 learnings are: 
* If possible, do it with others who are motivated and/or know what’s involved.
* Always have compliant food ready. (The urge to eat sneaks up stealthily.)
* Always have compliant food with you. (A bag full of things in the car: I was caught hangry and foodless in the vehicle a couple of times. The nail and teeth marks are still on the steering wheel and door.)
* Always check the labels. (Sugar or wheat or soy is in most packaged foods.)
* Always eat three substantial compliant meals a day. (Try not to snack.)
* Always eat a protein with each meal.
* Stay at son’s place for prepped compliant meals: so worth the dollars. (No, you cannot stay at my son’s place, but thanks for asking.)

Your body will tell you what foods work for it and, if you listen (and do the Whole 30 reintroduction correctly), it will tell what foods do not work for it. And, hopefully, you will not contract leprosy.

P.S. I still have some of the fish sauce, sauerkraut, pickled cucumbers, pickled kale, raw seeds, dirt, the word ‘compliant’ and a taste for cocomino from that first visit to the special boutique wholefoods grocery store.

Day One (Monday 8 January 2018)
Breaky: Two eggs, smoked salmon, mixed nuts (except peanuts)
Lunch: salad of cos leaves, alfalfa sprouts, asparagus, carrot, tomatoes, tuna and orange segments. (Yum)
Dinner: Handful of mixed nuts and seeds at 6, sweet potato tagine (very late, after 9pm); Jeanella made it W30 with pumpkin (no chickpeas, rice, yoghurt or honey: checked).
Kombucha and water throughout the day.
Shit day because of moving Miss X but stuck to it: can do anything if can do W30 during a day like today!

Day Two (Tuesday 9 January 2018)
Breaky: Nuts, salmon, boiled egg, salad
Lunch: nuts, salad
Dinner: slow cooked chicken curry and cauliflower rice
Kombucha and water throughout the day.
Another shit day because of moving Miss X but stuck to it. Caught up with Miss H, took computer in and test drove and bought Doug. Again, can do anything if can do W30 during a day like today.

Day Three (Wednesday 10 January 2018)
Breaky: fried (in coconut oil) eggs x 2, ham and tomatoes
Lunch: salad, nuts, apricots
Dinner: made sweet potato tagine (no tagine in sight) with pumpkin and roast potato pieces.
Kombucha: none today. I don’t think my body likes the fermented stuff or maybe it’s the carbonate added to it – shall test that out.
Had a quiet day starting with a walk on the beach and swim with Miss J, sending pics of Miss X’s new place to her, paying the storage place, watching Guardians of the Galaxy, snoozing and playing cards with Ms A, Mr M and Miss H. Getting annoyed – could it be W30 or period or both or plain old annoyed?

Day Four (Thursday 11 January 2018)
Breaky: nuts, apricots, mango
Lunch: left over sweet potato no tagine
Dinner: steak, salad, boiled potato
Kombucha: had some after 5pm and felt crap by 8:30pm. Hmmm… Jeanella’s brew was okay because it wasn’t carbonated. Making my own.
Picked up Doug and drove her down to Miss X, who then drove me to Miss H’s, lunch at Miss H’s, drove back to the coast, played cards with Miss H and Mr M. Thought Ms A was bringing in a bag of chips and my mouth salivated: it wasn’t chips but interesting reaction. Went to bed feeling very ordinary. Again I found I was annoyed: is it W30, or that people are eating and drinking non-compliant stuff around me when I’m not partaking, or period, or smugness, or a bloody shit couple of days? Weird!

Day Five (Friday 12 January 2018)
Break: nuts, apricots, mango
Snack: nuts
Lunch: left over sweet potato no tagine
Dinner: nuts, nuts, nuts, currants, nuts, olives and nuts! Started eating at 4pm, finished at 5:30-6.
Went to the beach for a walk, swim and puppy fix. Gah! It’s official. I’m hot, tired, cranky, overly-sensitive and annoyed. Time to go home to hubby. Housesitting son and partner’s house and staying Sunday night with them. Went to see 9:45am session of The Greatest Showman on Earth: great movie, great songs and lovely that it moved the lady sitting next to me to tears. Went to Roads to do Doug transfer and it’s too early, need to do it next week. Packed and said I’d be back up the coast on Sunday to beach walk, Cotton Tree market and go see a movie. Call from Mr R complaining about Miss X (already): jeepers that girl doesn’t learn. Time to swoop in, wave the magic wand and toughen up. No more Mrs Nice Chick methinks. Miss my computer 🙁

Day Six (Saturday 13 January 2018)
Breaky: carrot, eggs x 2, tomato, ham fried in olive oil
Lunch: potatoes x 2 microwaved and baked
Dinner: potatoes x 2 boiled and baked
Lazy day by myself watching TV after a hot, restless night, air cond. on, napped, spoke to Ms Pat, hubby and son. Am super emotional and am super itchy with the little blister things that have been popping up since Monday: may be eggs? Having potatoes (carbs) to see if that helps, should if it’s keto rash or an egg allergy. Gawd, the two combined are pretty shit! Again, stupid hot and can’t sleep; and far too much thinking going on, am upsetting myself, need to go back to being grateful and happy, stat!

*Note: As a writer of fiction loosely based on personal experiences, conversations, family, acquaintances and locations, please forgive any exaggerations. Apparently there is an automatic allowance when one holds a creative licence.

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Whole 30: whole lot of pain or whole lot of yumminess? Part 4

Funny, when one is feeling raw and guilt-ridden, any observations and/or contributions to the conversation start to take on tones of judgement and smugness and sound substantially less like helpful wise words. Plus – and I don’t know if anyone shares this particular phenomenon with me – in trying to talk without crying, my face resembles a melting passionfruit cheesecake: all runny, yellow and snotty-looking because, of course, I am crying and my nose is running and I’m speaking some incomprehensible language. (To those who took the time to watch the cheesecake melt and interpret the blub, blubber, blubbing, my thanks and kudos; and, if I have put anyone off eating passionfruit cheesecake, my apologies. No, not really. More for me when I’m off the Whole 30! Ah… dairy… sigh!)

Day five: I went nuts! Nuts for breakfast, nuts for lunch, nuts for dinner, nuts with anyone around me, nuts to anyone who crossed my path. I was missing my husband. I was missing my dogs. I was missing my computer. I was missing my mind. Apple, not the pink lady variety, called to tell me the part for my laptop would be available in seven to ten days. Holey undies Batman! I’m going to come down there and chomp you up Apple. I could not do another week or so away from my specialist blubbing interpreters. I was held to ransom by a computer part. I was in danger of drowning myself in my own sweat. I was frightened my friends and family would divorce the deranged chicken winged woman who had replaced their fun loving free spirit. I was turning evil. I was becoming… da da daaaahhhhh… she-bitch demon. Right! 

Pulled pork yourself together woman, I told myself as saliva dribbled down my chin. First things first: get computer back by letting Apple know you’re waiting on the return of your laptop before you can go home. Check – lovely guy went through records to see if someone had ordered that part and not returned Apple’s call for over two weeks to confirm repairs so the part can be used on my laptop, success, and it should be ready on Monday or Tuesday, yay! Second things second: get your flappy tuck shop arms into some air-conditioned accommodation. Check – housesit son’s place for the weekend as they were going away. Third things third: stay away from everything living for a couple of days. Check – apart from some over-the-phone specialist blubbing interpretation, two days were spent away from everything with a heart. (Oooh… I could… ah no, I do not eat offal.)

Time for a treat; I took myself off to see The Greatest Showman and felt right at home blubbing along with the woman sitting a couple of seats down. I did wonder if she was doing the Whole 30 or if she was exercising the she-bitch demon too. Comrades unite! (Chicken wing was still flapping a couple of minutes after this salute.) Driving back to Bris-Vegas with the air-cond on and the music loud, I sang, I screamed, I shouted and basically looked like a possessed nanna nightmare to the kids staring, pointing and screaming in horror as their parents drove past. Moo ha ha ha… Snap out of it, woman! Bitch slap. Ouch. Eyes on the road please. Well, stop bitch slapping me. Ouch. I was in trouble.

Even though my self-induced hermit-crab impersonation was interrupted by a phone call from the new perspiration splattered flatmate, complaining vehemently about CYA – oh yeah, it had been what… three days? – I did find myself relaxing in my solitude. Plus I learned I could turn my iPhone on silent, take the vibration off, turn it upside down and pretend the world was non-existent; I hear it’s called screening. Cool! See you can teach an old she-bitch new tricks. Speaking of tricks, it is okay to have the air conditioner on overnight, how else can you sleep through a Queensland summer night? I did not perform this particular magic trick at my son’s place though, being mindful of his black-belt miser-meister status; but seriously 50+ sweaty ladies… do it, it is worth a good nights sleep. I ate the last of my sweet potato and pumpkin tagine (sans the tagine): ta Jean! – and more nuts.

Day six (then seven then eight then…): I have leprosy! Itchy blisters have erupted on my chest like boiling custard. What the hell? Dr Search Engine on iPhone said it could be leprosy (not), keto rash or an egg allergy. Ah, well okay then. Why not throw something else at me. I had been having too much fun obviously. So, after a breakfast of eggs and other compliant foods, I ate potatoes, potatoes, and more potatoes. I watched fluff, fluff and more fluff on TV. I ate spuds, spuds and more spuds. I watched something unmemorable followed by something else unmemorable and then watched something forgettable. (Unforgettable is my relationship with potatoes. I love potatoes: particularly par-boiled, then olive oiled and sea salted, then baked. Yum. I salivate.)

My son had introduced me to broccoli steaks – a similar method to the roast potatoes above – WOW and KAPOW! Something had happened to my taste buds. They seemed to have become extremely sensitive to taste – possibly should have been sacked years ago as this was their only purpose, hence the name. Umami was bouncing around my buds like a knee-bounced bonny baby. (I thought of using ‘bouncing around like a bra-less nanna’s boobs but decided against it.) The clouds parted, sunrays shone through the kitchen window, the broccoli steaks gleamed in the glory and I ate them all in under five minutes. Flavour bombs were going off faster than raw prawns in the far north Queensland sun. All right! This Whole 30 thing is amazing. I was hooked. Recipe surfing; such a great way to distract oneself and… good exercise. 

It’s Monday and I had survived one full week of eating compliant food. I was quite proud of myself. I was feeling more energetic. My leprosy had eased. My taste buds were dancing with joy at not being sacked. My clothes were looser. The air conditioner was on. The she-bitch had been banished. What could possibly make me feel any better? Ta dah! There it was, a phone call from Apple. My laptop was ready for collection. Hallelujah! Swapping my computer for a thank-you card and a pair of avocado socks (as you do), I made preparations for the long drive home.

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Whole 30: whole lot of pain or whole lot of yumminess? Part 3

Please, don’t panic. I’m not going to write about every one of the thirty days! I’m not masochistic or sadistic enough (?), for which I am grateful and predict others are too. Speaking of S&M: kombucha. I had been drinking the produced, store-bought version as it is compliant, according to the Whole 30 website, and added some variety to my fluid intake. I had been drinking a large bottle of the store-bought version each day for two days. My track record when it came to carbonated drinks was not in the least medal worthy. With this in mind, I stopped drinking kombucha on the third day. If my thoughts had not been otherwise occupied with CYA and grumpy toddler, I possibly would have investigated thoroughly kombucha, the suggested intake and homemade versus purchased. 

As I was to find out later and post inaugural Whole 30, one had been consuming far too much each day, way over the 250ml recommended, and one’s body preferred the homemade variety. I have been brewing my own kombucha for twelve months now and have given my SCOBY mothers the names Scooter and Scarlett, both from my son’s SCOBY contribution. (The following may be upsetting to some: Jeanella’s contribution, Scott, died shortly after arriving home, his/her/its scabby SCOBY body was found moulding in a dry container… whoopsy!)

Day three and I was eating much more than I normally would and my clothes were becoming a little looser – not much but enough to be noticeable – interesting, my own little paradox. My son’s partner had told me that weighing was a Whole 30 no-no, but that she had taken a photo of herself in her togs the first day and would take another on the thirtieth day. So I copied her; as best a 50+ sloth-woman can copy a 30-something super-cut cross fitter. I whipped out the bathers and tried to master the art of taking a selfie in the mirror (to which I successfully failed but, as it was for personal use… meh, it was good enough). And whilst one has one’s bathers on, why not go for a walk along the beach and a little dip? Why not indeed? So I did. Ah, that was more like it… a relaxed day of eating compliant food, chilling out at the beach, watching fluff on the TV and feeling something like my old self. Though by nightfall, I was feeling sensitive and annoyed – I was way too emotional.

Apparently, it was not at all unusual to have had emotional reactions to doing the Whole 30. As part of the detox, there were all sorts of chemicals leeching out of my body along with withdrawal symptoms (from sugar in particular). I was sensitive, short-tempered, teary, headachy – oh, wait, it could have been PMT. Nah, I know the difference between being PMT bitch and now being Whole 30 detox bitch – they are different bitches (poor world).

Day four: I was running around like a headless, sweaty chook – picking up cars on the coast, dropping cars off on the other side of Brisneyland – a foolish, headless, sweaty chook. I had collected the twenty year-old Toyota Corolla, affectionately dubbed Doug, and driven it to CYA. Who, by the way, was not impressed in the slightest with Doug: I should have driven Doug off into the sunset right then and there, regardless of the fact that it was morning. However, there ensued more bitch slapping and perspiration spraying… to myself, for falling for the CYA’s sob stories and acting on best intentions. There was a saying bubbling up to the surface of my brain… ‘God save us from people with good intentions,’ or ‘Most of the evil in this world is done by people with good intentions.’ Something along those lines – though, I wouldn’t go so far as to call myself evil… yet. A few more days exposed to CYA’s drama whilst on the Whole 30 could soon change that. 

CYA and Doug dropped me off in Brisbane; I was meeting my niece for lunch. After a hair-raising, am-lucky-to-have-survived trip (who knew she could not drive even though she has had a licence for six years, gah!), I thought ‘what the hell have I done?’ Whilst CYA had an extensive list of things not to do when driving, written in my own hand and stuck to the dashboard, and although we’d had a serious conversation about her lifestyle with promises of change, taking responsibility and being accountable only seconds prior to me exiting the vehicle, the sense of dread was overwhelming for the future of CYA and her grumpy toddler. I felt I had just hammered in the last nail of my best intentions coffin.

Lunch with my niece was lovely; though trying to pull oneself together was like trying to eat san choy bau when the lettuce cup breaks followed by an oozing torrent of food and juice dribbled down the front of your new white top. (Oooh, san choy bau – bet I could make a compliant version!) I was emotional, tired, hot and utterly drained. Almost, in fact exactly, like Roger Federer was after losing to Rafael Nadal in the 2009 Australian Open. Except that I am not male. I play tennis as though it were a game of squash – why isn’t it the ball coming back to me? Oh, because you’ve hit it so hard it’s in the backyard of the house five blocks down. And, I’d have a huge smile on my face if I were that close to Rafael. I digress…            

The rest of the day was spent worrying, interjected with a drive back up the coast, a couple of games of cards, some salivating over a false-alarm bag of hot chips (meat from the butcher wrapped in… wait for it… butchers paper! Who’d have thunk it?), some more kombucha testing and inevitable fall out, and a huge dollop of cantankerousness. Sometimes you just need to talk to someone without them contributing in any way to the conversation: just to get it out, just to relieve some of the pressure building up. (Oooh, pork in the pressure cooker – bet I could make a compliant version of that!) 

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Whole 30: whole lot of pain or whole lot of yumminess? Part 2

What the hell was I thinking? If it was solely the challenge of doing the Whole 30, the whole experience most definitely would have been wholly and substantially more enjoyable. Little did I know that coming up was one of the most emotionally challenging weeks of my adulthood – and that’s sayin’ something. Of course, with her impeccable timing, she-bitch demon decides to stick my hand up. ‘She’ll do it. She’ll do it. She’ll do the Whole 30 with you even though she doesn’t know what it is and under what conditions she should do it.’ I hate that she-bitch demon, and her impeccable timing.

She-bitch demon knew I would put up as much resistance as a sleeping kitten. For various reasons – house-sitting for my sister, spending time with a girl-friend from Hobart for a week, volunteering at Woodford Folk Festival, family Christmas on the Sunshine Coast – I had been away from home and staying either in Brisbane or on the Sunshine Coast for close to two months. I was weak with homesickness, nauseous with hubby hankering, gagging with puppy pining and my computer had died. 

Day one: Monday… why do most of us start things on a Monday? It’s a thing, isn’t it? Sorry… Distracted momentarily… Day one: breakfast was easy; some fried eggs and smoked salmon did the trick. It almost felt like I was eating at a trendy café. I would have paid myself for the meal except I’d spent all my money at the special boutique wholefoods grocery store and on my son and his partner’s prepared compliant meals. Lunch: I knew I was heading out, so I made a salad to go – cos lettuce leaves, alfalfa sprouts, asparagus, carrot, tomatoes, tuna and orange segments, delicious. (Perhaps next time I will add the tuna and tomatoes to the salad just before I eat it. Suffice to say, the salad was a little mushy albeit quite tasty.)

In amongst mouthfuls of wilted lettuce leaves and soggy sprouts, there were phone calls from a person in need. Mount up gentle altruistic folk; there yonder be a damsel in distress. Comfortably seated in my trusty steed (aka Bee, the bright yellow Hyundai Accent hatchback), I went to help this needful person move from one end of town to the other. It was horrendous. The temperature was in the high thirties and it was as humid as hell (one is assuming there is humidity in hell). Though, as I was (and still am for the most part) a person of my word, I rocked up and assumed the position… of sucker!

Of course, I was the only person helping. Of course, mine was the only steed… rather, car being used. Luckily, packing aficionado was my middle name. Three hours and eight litres of perspiration later, the car was bulging down the road with the belongings of one grumpy toddler and a clueless young adult. (No mention will be made of the angry male undertones emanating from within the abode, growing louder with each door slam and item removed from house to car.) Thank goodness I had eaten my compliant salad before mounting up.

The plan was to drop my carload at the new across-the-other-side-of-town accommodation and then I would head to my girlfriend’s place for dinner and a catch up. The plan was doomed. Like an ill-knitted jumper, it quickly unravelled. The new flatmate had his nose out of joint because I was helping and became confrontational – dickhead alert! Sorted him out: swat. I flapped my chicken wings and splattered him with yet another litre of perspiration, held in reserve for such occasions. And yes, I did warn clueless young adult against moving in with sweat-wet dickhead. And yes, we’ve all had that one flatmate. And yes, it turned out they couldn’t move in until the next day. Fork! 

It was all too stressful for CYA (clueless young adult). No, she didn’t want to come to my girlfriend’s place. No, she had nowhere else to go. No, she doesn’t want me to come up with a solution. No, she just wants to run away and leave me holding the bulging carload of her belongings and her child. At this point, I’m fading fast. My blood sugar level has dropped and my hands are starting to shake. I’m feeling slightly faint when… The she-bitch demon bitch slapped me with my own chicken wing. Right! 

I confiscate most of CYA’s money, drop her at the nearest train station and make for the sanctity of my friend’s house. There was a smattering of catching up done in between grumpy toddler demands. There was an introduction to sweet potato tagine (warning, no tagines were involved in the making of this dish), for which I am forever thankful. There was the movie Moana to which grumpy toddler fell asleep, for which I am forever thankful. What a beep beep beepity beeped day! And that was only day one.

Day two: An very late breakfast, unplanned. You know when you are hot, tired, haven’t been sleeping well because of the heat, have appointments to get to, have grumpy toddlers to wrangle and your fuel providing, sanity giving, energy boosting breakfast is late? You know that feeling? Well… My altruistic friend (bless her little furry nanna blanket), loves cooking, loves good organic food, is vegan (but eats eggs), is borderline obsessive/compulsive when it comes to her kitchen and pantry (a converted dining room) and loves a good chinwag. I’m more of the quick, efficient cook variety; my friend talks then cooks, talks then cooks. So things were delayed. Plus I’d had a fight with the grumpy toddler. He started it! I finished it. No more pre-breakfast swimming in the pool for him. Suffice to say, it took a little longer than anticipated to have breakfast of the perfectly boiled egg and salad. A great start to the second day, love that irony, and a note to self about hanger-management.

After squeezing grumpy toddler into his seat, wedged between clothes, toy baskets and bags of unknown contents, we head to the pre-arranged pick up spot and collect CYA. It is another high thirty-degree and ridiculous humidity day, of course. We go to the new abode and, as fast as my chicken wings could flap, unload the car. I explained to CYA the easy-to-follow-budget her caring elders have put together, showed her how to divvy up her funds so she can pay everything and have some left for savings, gave her a pep talk, bolstered her confidence and splattered perspiration over new flatmate’s face as I handed over grumpy toddler and waved goodbye. Ironic, the speed limit was ten kilometres per hour when I needed to race away. The delayed breakfast had put me behind the eight ball. I had a date with my niece and an appointment with Apple about my computer, on which my return home would depend.

I collected my niece and left my beloved laptop with Apple. Ravenous and desperate, I excused myself, and without further ado or decorum, sat on the curb in the car park of the shopping centre (the only shade I could find), and ate another soggy salad. (Would I never learn? Yes. The next salad was not soggy.) The drive to the Sunshine Coast was lovely. No trying to talk sense into a CYA, no fighting with grumpy toddlers, no bitch slapping by the she-bitch demon, a clear view from all of my mirrors, air conditioned comfort and a satisfied appetite: bliss.

That afternoon, I hammered the second last nail into my best intentions coffin: I bought CYA a car. (Would I never learn? Yes. The car was not soggy.) On the bright side, dinner was delicious: slow cooked chicken curry and cauliflower rice. Yum. On the dull, flat side, I had missed my husband’s birthday by allowing myself to become involved in CYA’s futile drama. Ouch, what was that biting me on the bum? Oh, of course, it was the sharp, jagged teeth of my best intentions drawing blood…

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Whole 30: whole lot of pain or whole lot of yumminess? Part 1

There are times when I have looked back on things I have done and asked myself ‘what the hell were you thinking?’ Usually when the ‘thing’ didn’t pan out well or was an uphill climb on one’s fingertips and toes… for hours, days, months even; with no peak in sight and no spectacular vista as a reward for the effort. Then there are times when I have thanked the heavens for doing what I was thinking, saying to myself ‘thank the heavens for doing that!’ Or words to that effect; though only when the ‘thing’ brought with it some wonderful feel-good hormones spread out on a picnic rug with a wicker basket containing some lovely brie, nice wine and a freshly baked baguette or two smack bang in the middle of that there rug. My inaugural Whole 30 experience was, for the most part, a combination of both pain/hell and yumminess/heaven.

There I was, visiting my child in January 2018, innocent and/or ignorant of the ways of the Paleo and Whole 30 worlds, and, minding my own business and that of my son and his partner (as a mother is prone to do). Eavesdropping (as a mother is prone to do) on a conversation about a friend not joining my son’s partner in doing the Whole 30. 

‘I’ll do it with you,’ I heard a voice sounding very much like my own offer. Having absolutely no idea what the hell I was getting myself in to or where the hell that had come from. I looked around anxiously, searching for the demon that had temporarily and suddenly possessed me. Gulp. It was the ‘best mother-in-law (possibly) in the world’ she-bitch demon. I hate that demon! ‘What does it entail?’ I asked, sipping on a G&T, gnawing on a piece of baguette smothered with brie, flashing my best fake ‘yeah, I’ve got this, I can do anything, I am invincible’ look. Both of them looked at me, then at each other with small knowing smirks.

‘It means…,’ deep breath, pregnant pause ‘No alcohol…’ I choke. ‘… No dairy…’ I cough up a piece of brie. ‘… No grains, which means no wheat, rice, quinoa…’ I continue coughing up brie and bread. ‘No legumes, including peanuts…’ I gulp down some G&T to staunch the coughing. ‘And… no sugar.’

‘Well, that sounds doable,’ gulp, gulp, guzzle, guzzle. ‘When do we start?’

‘Tomorrow.’ More shared smirking.

‘Right,’ I finish the G&T, the baguette, the brie. ‘We’d better go shopping then.’ I’ll show these two spring chickens, I thought as I flapped my wings and struggled to extricate my bottom from the couch’s boa constrictor like grasp.

Off we went to the special boutique wholefoods grocery store: which adds ten percent for each letter of the words ‘wholefoods’ and ‘organic’ – which one finds incredible, as there is less processing, manufacturing and packaging involved. Why did I voice that out loud? Queue lesson on mass production, chemical spraying, recycling, land clearing, greenhouse gases, climate change, permaculture and minimalism. All before selecting my first organic, locally grown avocado. I hold tight to the trendy wicker basket (a nice touch provided free of charge at the entrance; though, I was sad to find out, one cannot take the basket home no matter how much is spent in store, and no matter how tightly it was held… bummer). My son and his partner walked the aisles whilst I trailed behind gasping at the prices of the items they were putting in the tightly clutched trendy wicker basket.

‘You’ll need this…’ plonk. ‘… and this…’ plonk. ‘Read the labels of EVERYTHING. No sugar. It is in EVERYTHING. Except this…’ plonk. Three hundred dollars later (I am prone to exaggeration as well as eavesdropping and minding my son and his partner’s business), I walked out of the store with a lovely hand-made paper bag filled with fish sauce, sauerkraut, pickled cucumbers, pickled kale, cocomino (what the hell is that?), raw nuts, raw seeds, organic veggies complete with dirt, smoked salmon, some special non-cured bacon and ham (?) and the word ‘compliant’. 

‘We have a heap of compliant food at home,’ they said as we walked to the car. ‘We cook our compliant meals every Sunday for the whole week,’ they said as we climbed into the car. ‘You can have some of our compliant food…’ they said as we drive back to their place. ‘…If you’re happy to throw in some money,’ they said. Smirk, smirk, smirky, smirk. So why did I just buy all this stuff? Hmmm… I am sure these two have shares in the special boutique wholefoods grocery store with the trendy wicker baskets and lovely hand-made paper bags. And, ironically (and with a healthy dose of stupidity), I am a tad proud my son has turned into a miser-meister, the direct opposite of his uber-bountiful mother, and am sure I would be prouder still of them extracting money from the innocent and/or ignorant, if that idiot wasn’t me.

After unpacking the groceries and whilst some furious productivity occurred in the kitchen, I was initiated into the world of Whole 30. ‘There’s a book over there,’ knife pointed in the general direction of the bookshelf whilst indicating ‘get the hell out of our kitchen while we cook’, which I completely understood. I took my chicken wing arms covered in olive-oiled brussel sprout leaves over to the bookshelf and whipped out the book titled ‘Whole 30’. How hard can it be? Really? I can eat all the veggies I like (and I love veggies), all the meat I like (except cured bacon and ham), all the nuts I like (except peanuts), all the seafood I like (except lobster; because I am a white belt miser-meister), all the fruit I like (except all the fruit I like; perhaps one piece a day as the amount of fructose should be limited), all the mushrooms I like (except I don’t like mushrooms), all the eggs I like (watch this space), plus I can drink all the water I like. Luckily for me, I’m a glass of water half full type of gal. I am certain I can do this.

That night, with the Whole 30 book downloaded onto my iPhone, a glass of G&T in one hand and a slab of brie in the other (waste not, want not I always say), I read, by backlight, the reasoning behind eating wholefoods for thirty days and then reintroducing the eliminated foods back in gradually. I read the Whole 30 is a detox for the digestive system, flushing out the modern additives and ‘flavour enhancers’, absorbing the vitamins and nutrients from organic, grass-fed, chemical-free, in season, unprocessed foods: a similar diet to the grannies of old, hold the baked goods and dairy. I read the Whole 30 encourages good eating behaviours, three solid meals a day with no snacking. I read the benefits may include weight loss, eliminate aches and pains, eliminate bloating, clear skin, an increase in energy levels… I tip out the G&T and throw away the brie. I’m in. And it’s only for thirty days, right?

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A Morning Walk

It was quiet on Saturday morning at seven o’clock. Though the usual cacophony of bird communication prevailed. The sun was up, resting above a blanket of grey cloud, giving the dew soaked lawn longer to bathe and a subdued light to the scene. Scent of jasmine flowers, lavender heads and rosemary stalks blended into a heady spring perfume. It was quiet.

I walked down the driveway and turned right into the street. The gravel crunched under my soles like breakfast cereal being consumed. Each step the potential sequester of a pebble or small twig within the grooves of the tread. There is no footpath, only the shoulder of the road bearing the weight of cars parked there most days; the owners wordlessly protesting against the fees demanded of the gated public park opposite. 

The lone white sedan ticked and tocked as I passed, exhausted after its journey, the metal cooling in the shade of the acacia and gum trees lining the roadside. It was old; the dings and dents wrinkled and shadowed the once smooth body. Miles, hours, roads, people; what stories it would have. Only the car’s mirrors can reflect on its past. The car was empty of anything living. I notice these things.

The shoulder widens slightly before shrinking to a single file walking space: bushes and trees on the right, the road on the left. The footpath begins, forty metres or so from the driveway end. It starts opposite a traffic island with a gap suggesting a road crossing for pedestrians. The lane space for vehicles decreases due to the island. I consider this to be the most dangerous section of my morning walks. Though on this Saturday, it was quiet.

I walked past the sleeping caravan snuggled in its doona cover, and reached up to feel the overhanging leaves wondering if the tree can feel my touch. Is a tree like a cat, each leaf a whisker or strand of fur responding to contact? Surely if a tree is a living thing … A noise breaks my reverie and I stop.

A rabble of cyclists caterwauled past, their blather bouncing against the quiet like a rambunctious child on it’s sleeping parents’ bed. While most were unintelligible, some words echoed clearly around the peaceful acres: ‘faster cadence’, ‘pushing watts’, ‘bigger climb’. The terms made no sense to me and I pondered on the choice: ride with a group of sweaty, chatterboxes ignorant of everything bar the inane conversation and road, or walk solo. I continued walking, choosing to ponder on anything but cyclists.

Stopping, I walked back. Something on the side of the footpath did not belong. A pattern stood out amongst the grass and debris of leaves. Criss-cross, black on beige. I searched. I found. Upside-down, a pet turtle carcass. I turned it over with my foot, in case, and with slight hope, the stillness was not death. The shell had been crushed. The turtle was dead and had been for some time. 

Amazed at the unconsciousness of observing and backtracking: I had no thought or memory of processing what I had seen and the responding action to the anomaly, only of searching for it. What a wondrous thing the brain is. I tucked this nugget of knowledge into my ‘thought, emotion, action’ file for future contemplation and continued walking.

My thoughts turned to the owner of the pet turtle. Was it a child? Had they had the turtle for a long time? Was it a birthday or Christmas present? What would be worse: the turtle wandering off and lost forever or the finding of the turtle carcass and burial? Poor pet turtle owner, I empathised the loss of a pet as I ambulated past the church.

A man appeared from around the corner. Tall and slim, and dressed all in black. Even his headphones were black. His gait was unusual; it caught my attention quicker than Mark Waugh can catch a cricket ball. His hips did all the work. Each hip pushed each thigh forward, each foot carried forward by the momentum from each knee. Where had I seen that movement before? A marionette! He ‘Thunderbirds’ past me with a nod. The path turned right and I followed it, smiling, unlike Lady Penelope. 

The path and I meander past a paddock, population: one donkey dubbed Eeyore, across a road and down a slight hill on which sits the local primary school. From the hilltop, the thick line of the footpath doodles away, losing girth along its length, and disappears under the trees nestled at the base of the slope. A slight breeze brought a pine, jasmine, mown grass mixed fragrance to my nostrils and I breathed in deeply, savouring the freshness.

Deep rumblings broke the ambience, cracked the peace and smacked at my attention. A group of four men walked towards me, talking to each other as though they were lined up against a bar, beers in hand, watching a pub band smash out heavy metal from a corner stage. Ah, solitude, where for art thou? Will thou ever reveal thy self when unwanted audience threatens thou? It could have been worse: the high pitched cackling of four females talking over the top of each other, usually about other females, is unarguably less appealing.

Though as I walked past the men, greeting them with my usual look-them-in-the-eye-and-smile ‘morning’, as though I hadn’t found their presence as noisy and disturbing as a plane crash, this question popped into my head: 

‘Would you feel safer, as a woman, in a room full of men like these guys for two days or a room full of people from a foreign country speaking a language you couldn’t understand.’

My answer was instantaneous: the latter. But then, of course, I questioned why. Do I feel threatened, in danger, scared by unfamiliar men? In a group, in a room, being the only female; probably, yes. Then why wouldn’t I feel the same with a group of people from a foreign country with no shared language? Perhaps the challenge would be more mental with the group of people? Perhaps I assume that the group of men would want something from me? Interesting question. To which I still question my answer, particularly when out walking.

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A Wisp

A wisp in mother’s embrace. 
Murmured promise, 
caressed in innocence.

A womb of stasis worry. 
Whispered distress 
denied the engorged tomb. 
Silver streaked red, forced 
an edited birth.

Hearts bled; slicks of grief 
on waves of sorrow. 
Twice lost: too cruel is life,
too cruel is life.

Light comfort from Hatsya’s crib, 
winks and wavers 
in memory of a wisp.

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Fork! I’m Fifty! Wine, Women and Song.

The best part about menopause … Ummm … There is no best part! Everything about it is forked! Okay, let me re-phrase that … It is great we are able to talk about menopause and peri-menopause more openly now. (How’s that? Better? Yes, thank you. You’re welcome. Fork off. Oh, okay.) 

Although, I would be very surprised if the preceding generation of women didn’t compare notes over cups of tea or an Aperol Spritz or two. (Too far back. What? You’ve gone too far back! Where? Aperol Spritz dates back to the 20s not the 60s. Right. And I care because? Oh, okay.) Scrap that last sentence … Our mums definitely would have had conversations about the ‘change of life’ over Vodka Martinis or Harvey Wallbangers as they were approaching their fifties. (Better? Cheers.)

We are generally given the ‘birds and bees’ talk at around eleven or twelve – possibly earlier for some, possibly later for others, possibly not at all for some and possibly it was far too traumatic for others. For me, it was an uncomfortable chat around a lounge chair with my mum and two sisters. I had no idea what the hell mum was talking about. I was a kid. Better than that, I was a tomboy. Get back to me when the boob fairy has given me a couple of well-formed boozies and the hair fairy has planted a small, well-formed pelt to cover my bits.

If mum mentioned anything about menopause or peri-menopause prior to me experiencing some of the effects, I have no memory of it (typical) and would have had no idea what the hell she was talking about. I was a kid. Better than that, I was a kid with well … nothing who grew up to own weird fried eggs resembling boozies. Ignorance was my preferred state of bliss. And really, what difference would it have made?

I was given the ‘birds and bees’ chat: I fell pregnant at twenty. Never a good student as the adventures, daydreams and stories I imagined in my head were always so much more entertaining. Much more so than having to learn something only to spit it back out almost instantly. (Tempted to say something about semen here but will restrain myself.)

Even if I had been warned of what was to come (see what I did there … that was an unintended pun … kind of proud of that one … I’d pat myself on the back if I wasn’t so scared of the bitch-slapping back fat), I would not have paid one bit of attention because I wasn’t experiencing it, there was nothing to relate it to.

Now, it is relatable. Now, I have conversations about it with my mum. Actually, it’s more me whinging, bitching and moaning and mum nodding. ‘I suppose I was lucky to have had a full hysterectomy in my thirties,’ she says, ‘I didn’t go through menopause,’ she tells me, yet again, for the umpteenth time, pushing the knife in further, as though saying ‘nah, nah, nar nar nah, that’s what you get for not listening to your mother, nah nah, nar nar nah!’ Well, my kids are being told about this major event in a woman’s life. Over and over again, until they have their climacteric radars at the ready.

If it wasn’t for the wonderful women around me, I would have been under the incorrect assumption that I was special and the only woman in the world to be going through this thing called peri-menopause/menopause. (Pausing for a moment to consider why this thing is called ‘men’ opause? What have men got to do with menopause? Answer: from the Greek word ‘men’ (month) and ‘pausis’ (halt). Common sense really. Though how common is common sense? Really?)

Back to my female friends of a similar age or affliction … Being able to talk, compare, whinge and bitch about all that is happening, was happening and is not happening any more is a bloody marvel. No pun intended. Particularly, as these sessions usually take place with some lovely wine or yummy gin.

Another favourite thing sacrificed: wine. It now hates me, with demon-spewing passion. I haven’t told the girls yet, feigning a preference for gin, but the truth will have to come out eventually. Even one teeny, tiny, little sip of wine and I end up sleeping in a puddle of my own sweat, waking up to my heart racing faster than Usain Bolt and a headache that would down a bull elephant.

Red wine is my arch nemesis now. Waaahhhhh!!! It was my favourite thing. With cheese and bread. More specifically: Brie and baguettes. Now, it’s: have some red wine at your peril, Jones. All hell breaks loose: literally. Diarrhoea for days and spewing up everything that has ever been swallowed by me … throughout my entire life … since my birth … since gestation. I have tested the theory – twice. It is a fact. Or does it have to be tested three times with the same outcome before a theory is accepted as fact? I think twice is sufficient. I am stupid, not demented.

Thank the heavens for gin! I have decided to become a gin wanker. I will test every brand of gin, list the botanicals of each together with the condiment/s best suited to each. My knowledge of gin will astound my peers, impress my family and possibly lead to my being recognised as a world-renowned aficionado of juniper juice. When I stop crying that is.

Unfortunately, all alcohol is fast becoming recognised as the cause of my night sweats, heart races and headaches, plus I really do not feel well the next day. Even from swallowing a teensy, tiny bit of Listerine. Doomed! Doomed! I am doomed! What is a fifty-something year old woman supposed to live for if she can’t drink alcohol? (Hubby nudges me. Oh, alright then.)

Giving the above more contemplation than it deserves, I put the ‘Best of the 80s’ CD on the stereo, whip out the vacuum cleaner and sing along with UB40 at the top of my lungs: ‘Red, red why iiiinnnnnneeeeee…’
(Fork! I’m fifty!)

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Fork! I’m Fifty! Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow.

Who knew? Well, hundreds … no, thousands … quite possibly millions of women knew when they experienced it first hand. And, quite possibly, they may have warned the next generation. Or, they were nasty bitches who thought ‘they have youth, they can fork off,’ and kept this little nugget all to themselves.

For some completely forked reason, some/most/almost all women when they reach peri-menopause or menopause, the molecular structure of their hair changes (except for you; female who’s name starts with the letter ‘S’ and who shall remain nameless: bitch). Some blame hormones, some blame diet, some blame hormones and diet, some blame the hormones in the foods in the diet – whatever the reason is: it is forked!

When your hair was your crowning glory (oh yeah, that pun was intended), like mine most definitely was, losing what feels like handfuls of it and/or the losing the thickness of it and/or losing the length of it, is just a tiny bit hard to come to forking terms with. The penny drops … ah, so that is why older women mostly have short hairstyles. Dur!

I knew something was happening with my hair. Initially I thought it was because I had changed shampoo and conditioner brands. My hair started to feel coarse. Perhaps it was my hands, I told myself, after working in the garden – placated for a few more days. After washing my hair, my hands would be covered in long threads of brown locks, say nothing about the shower drain. Maybe I was turning into a werewolf and, so was the drain?

And then, I saw a photo of myself … taken as I was walking … along the beach … on a slightly breezy day … on Facebook. What the fork? Where is my hairline? Where did it go? I could have sworn it used to start a centimetre or two further forward on my forehead. It’s gone out with the tide! Receded back onto my skull almost in line with … my ears! Waaahhhh! Come back! Come back! Swim back to mummy. Forking Facebook!

That was the day I decide to rebel against nature, take matters into my own hands, take charge, make a stand, show my hair who was boss. I went to the hairdresser and snip, boom, bang … one sexy new short hairstyle. Oh yeah! Take that follicles! 

I had started a war. Next morning after waking with seriously bad bed head, I washed my hair. I may as well have stuck my hand in a power point whilst having a bath with my favourite fan heater. Gone were the sleek, shiny tresses of yesterday, sitting perfectly in their trendy, geometric, groovy, gelled coif. During the night, some bad bed head hair fairies had been to visit. In place of luscious locks were wire, feathers and cobweb strands; the sticky ones. What the fork? Seriously?

Right! I’ll fix your wagon. Shoving a baseball cap on my head, I go to the supermarket, purchase a semi-permanent hair colour in approximately my natural hair colour (or what it used to be before the greys started appearing at my temples), go home, straight into the bathroom, open packets, bottles, gloves, put this lotion into that bottle with that lotion, shake shake shake, squirt rub squirt rub, rinse, condition, towel dry, et voila! 

Hmmm … well that didn’t have the desired effect of restoring the wayward Medusa-esque frizz back to the store bought cool do. Though it did hide the greys for another month. Right! Out came the hair dryer and the newly purchased round styling brush and the newly purchased styling gel. I should have purchased a new me while I was at it. One who has the stamina, strength and gives a flying toss about spending an hour doing their hair.

After five minutes of blowing, brushing and gelling I looked like a band member from Flock of Seagulls – not pretty, not mentally healthy, and not legal (no matter how hard Trump tries to make it so). Plus my arms were so sore from wrangling the hair dryer, the hair brush and the back fat. Ah well, I surrender. Have it your way. Be rebels. You win. Take on the chore of trying to give me the shits every morning.

I had made the fatal error of forgetting that I am no J-Lo or Beyonce; I do not have an entourage at home to maintain my new do. Together with the fact that I have: no interest; no stamina; no strength and having been witness to my back fat being wind blown around my body was enough to make one vomit; though the thought of bits of pea and carrot becoming trapped in fat wrinkles was enough then to stop that urge. Gag-arama! I do have a baseball cap though, and time. Time to grow the high maintenance do out and start again.

A couple of years later, my sun bleached long brown hair is almost at my waist. But it is so fine and wispy, plus I have my new Mickey Mouse meets Dracula hairline. I miss my thick, wavy mane. I think, ‘what if I layer it, that should thicken it up a bit?’ So off she goes, layers her hair, gives herself a fringe. Seriously, who let her have the scissors? Who? What stupid peri-menopausal idiot decides it is a good idea to give herself a haircut and a fringe?

Too late now! There is no turning back. Fork! What have I done? My hair is uncontrollable and a frizzy, wiry mess. Back to the hairdresser, who takes it upon herself to deal out a terrible nanna bob with an even worse fringe. I looked like the Three Stooges had attacked my head. The hairdresser looked at me as if to say ‘this is what you get when you cut your own hair.’ Well, that backfired smarty-farty because if you’re going to make me look like that, I am not coming back!

Ah fork! Back to square one. It is around this time that I have an epiphany. No more high maintenance hair. No more hair dye. No more trying to hide the fact that I am getting older. Suck it up and be a big girl. Find one good trustworthy hairdresser. Have a good, easy to manage haircut and stick with it. Have regular trims to keep the style.

Hubby came to the rescue (the training is working again): ‘Go short,’ he advised. ‘You can carry off a really short hairstyle.’ He picked the style and I found the hairdresser, and between the two of us … um, three of us … we have found a way to stop me from bitching, whingeing and complaining incessantly about my hair. Hubby is one smart cookie; that or he really cannot stand me bitching, whingeing and complaining. Boy, is he in for a surprise! (Fork! I’m fifty!)

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Fork! I’m Fifty! Hail Damage, Cottage Cheese and Bags of Potatoes.

Fifteen! ‘She was only fifteen years old.’ When cellulite came a-knockin’. I had found a dimple on the outside of my upper, right thigh. I asked my mum, ‘what is this dimple mum’, to which she replied, ‘it’s cellulite. A little bag of trapped fat.’ Well, that’s revolting … and forked. Fifteen! I was fit, small and victim to bags of trapped fat.

Nothing further to report until going to the beach in my late twenties. There I was; a young, fit mother (albeit with shit tits), in shorts and a top – it was Hobart, where only the very young, the very old, the very stupid and dogs go in the water – and some tosser says ‘you’re alright apart from the cellulite on your legs’. What the forkitty fork? Seriously dude? Have you looked in a mirror? Ever?

That night, of course, I checked myself out. Low and behold, the tops of my legs had been replaced by cottage cheese! A very small container of cottage cheese, but cottage cheese none-the-less. There is a saying ‘you are what you eat’ … my friends … it is true. My food of choice when pregnant: cottage cheese. With pineapple. So I had pineapples for boobs and cottage cheese for thighs. Fantastic! We won’t touch on my love of yoghurt and how that manifests itself later in my life.

There is a distinct difference between the cute cottage cheese cellulite I had in my late twenties and the sacks of spuds that now inhabit my bum, tum, legs and arms. Firstly, I don’t eat dairy anymore (well, it is selective dairy consumption – who can say no to brie?), and now have a full-blown love affair with any vegetable containing the word potato. Seriously, we are at it at least twice a day. Secondly, this stuff is everywhere. I look like I’ve been left outside on a rotisserie during the most ferocious hailstorm of the century. I have hail damage! If I were a car, I’d be written off.

Really, I’m not surprised. Being inactive for eighteen months will do that to a woman, particularly an older woman. Though in combination with the fat and wobbly bits I’m starting to think this may be a lost cause. I could drive myself insane trying to get rid of the cellulite and the fat: plus there’s the balding hedgehog to deal with. And brie.

Perhaps all I need to do is eat smooth, un-lumpy, toned food: like Tom Hanks’ Cast Away character did – fish and coconut. Hmmm … on one hand I could have a trim, toned, svelte, old body which hubby loves regardless of what I think of it and how I look (at least that’s what he says to shut me up – which is fair, he is well trained); and on the other hand I could have a love of yummy food, cooking and eating out with friends and not look in mirrors or down when naked.

It’s a tough decision – hail damage, cottage cheese and bags of potatoes or fish and coconut? Really the question should be: Why the fork do women get all these forked things happening to them? If anyone says anything about forking apples and gardens and a bloke named Adam, they will be bitch-slapped by my back fat! Oh yeah, it will reach! Or should the question be: Why do women care? Hmm …

I remember seeing my great aunt at the beach in her bathers playing with her grand-son and thinking I hope I’m like her when I get old: not care about the saggy boobs, padded tummy and hips, flappy arms, dimples everywhere including knees. But I am not: I am vain. I should be setting an example for the younger generation of women coming up through the ranks. Being completely confident with my cottage cheese carnage. Nah, fork that. They have their own mothers, grandmothers, aunts and friends to example the shite out of owning fat bags.

I want to be a groovy granny sans cellulite, with the unconditional love of my grandchildren. Whoops … with the unconditional love for my grandchildren! Though I won’t be able to smell or see if they have a dirty nappy, and I may smother them with my cellulite covered back fat if I lean forward, so it’s over to grand-dad for that part. Which is only fair.

Do you know what really forks me off about cellulite? That female celebrities have found a way to get rid of or avoid cellulite altogether and have not shared the secret with the rest of us. That is unsisterly, unfeminine, selfish and just plain forked. We end up looking like dried up prunes whilst they strut around in their un-cellulited bodies. Come on ladies! One for all and all for one. I think I just found some cellulite on my earlobe!

Do you know what else pisses me off about cellulite? Guys don’t get it. I may have mentioned this earlier, though I forget, I feel it is necessary to mention it again to make my point clear. Society has it all wrong: women should be paid more money as they have to put up with more shite. (Of course, hubby would argue that men are paid more to compensate for the whinging and nagging of their wives. He would be wrong. And for his trouble: a round-house, back fat bitch slap. Back to training his well-shaped, un-cellulited arse!)

I just sneezed and a tsunami-like mound of dimpled jelly rolled its way down my back, around my hips and through to my stomach: what the fork! (It may be because you’re sitting around writing instead of exercising? Fork off! Oh, okay.) I did exercise this morning; I went for a lovely hour long walk along the dog beach. I met some lovely golden retrievers who would not let me pass without first slobbering kisses all over me and sitting on my feet for a multitude of pats.

It was regenerating being out and about. Breathing in the fresh, salty air. Listening to the waves gently breaking on the shore. The sun dappling on the water, shimmering and glittery. Cellulite softly dimpling and denting with my every step. Fat bits wobbling and rolling like puppies playing under a doona. It is a start. Remember, every journey starts with a small step. (Fork! I’m fifty!)