The Diagnosis

I look at the list of foods the doctor hands me. Four columns - dark blue - allowed, light blue - moderation, orange - special treats, and scarlet - banned. How have I got this? High cholesterol is something old people and ex-husbands get, not me. Which column is gin in? Surely I don’t have to give that up? Moderation column, two to three times a week - ridiculous - which night’s am I supposed to cut it out? Perhaps I could substitute giving up something I don’t like instead - taramasalata - I don’t like that and it’s on the banned list so I think I could have gin on the nights when I might have eaten taramasalata if I liked it. Seems sensible.

The doctor is talking exercise - I sing in my head to block out her words. I’m not doing exercise; I might walk the goldfish or jump the bus queue but that’s all. I catch sight of an item in the banned column and feel faint as a word cries out to me - chocolate! Incredibly it’s in the scarlet column, an error surely. Probably means lots of chocolate. I only eat two squares a day so I don’t think it applies to me but I’d better clear this up now.

“So what does it mean?” I ask the doctor. “It’s not really clear, is it?” She looks at me sympathetically, as if I had late onset learning difficulties.

“It means NO CHOCOLATE”, she says in a non-negotiable voice.

“Bloody unreasonable.” I think.

I walk home in a daze, must take an inventory immediately. There’s a bag of factory clearance in the fridge, (very exciting to have broken bits of Easter eggs, especially when you find all the pieces that make up ‘Happy Easter’ in one bag.) Not much left in here so if I finish it today, it’s one less to worry about. At the back of the shelf there’s several bars of my favourite white Divine that I’ve been saving, I’ll squirrel that away. It’s much too good to eat all at once. There’s a Twirl in the vegetable drawer, next to the rotting courgette; needs immediate rescue.

Wandering into the lounge nibbling a piece of egg shaped like a boot with ‘ster’ iced on, I pick up the box of Thornton’s Winter collection I got at Christmas - still eight of those left , so could eat them tomorrow. And on the shelf below the tv there’s a full box of Ferraro Rocher. There’s obviously no time to lose because I’ve just spotted some little chocolate Father Christmas’s on the coffee table left over when I took the tree down. For emergencies only because they’re rubbish chocolate. Next I’ll search my handbags for After Eights collected from Indian restaurants. I’ll eat them tonight, (unless they’re stuck to the bag linings).

A week later.

It’s been a struggle with many tears shed, but it’s over now. All chocolates eaten apart from the Ferrero Rocher, (my least favourite). Took them to my art class; they lasted less time than it took some prat to say ‘Ear, ear’, at the first mention of Van Gogh’s name. My stock of precious white chocolate, Divine, is still uneaten, having escaped the cholesterol purge altogether. It is now in hiding in my knicker drawer, somewhere the chocolate police/ husband will never think of looking. He finds that drawer terrifying with its eclectic collection ranging from the tiniest of thongs, (what was I thinking?), to big knickers from M&S which are meant to hold in even the most wayward flesh to achieve an hourglass silhouette.

But hourglass silhouettes are only achieved by the rolls of fat resting somewhere else and trapping them in lycra will only settle them like the rings of Saturn in an uncomfortable ridge between the bra and top of said big knickers, thus limiting their utility. In other words, I can’t bend in the middle if I’m wearing the lycra knickers, so on the one special occasion I went out in them, the ride to the venue was interesting. I draped myself across my protesting companions in the back seat of the taxi.

The occasion was a stand-up ‘do’, no question of sitting down, and banish the idea from your mind that I could possibly eat while wearing the knickers. So I stood, or at times draped myself elegantly over the back of a chair, wearing a floor-length dress so that I could hide my footwear, comfortable old favourites. But as the night got hotter and the carpets more cloying, I lasted about an hour before the agony set in. I had resorted to removing the shoes by the time the speeches had finished and in the stampede for the loo, (which always follows speeches), someone stood on the hem of my dress and sent me flying into an elite group of bankers reminiscing stridently about their last skiing holiday and squabbling as to who would skipper the yacht to France for lunch next Sunday. Having upset my drink over most of them, I tried to make amends by using tissues to wipe them down, but the tissues shredded and left little white bits all over their black dinner suits. They seemed less than impressed. Backing away and looking for my own tribe, I was dismayed to find they had tiptoed to the bar, totally disowning me.

Inexplicably I’m no longer invited to any posh ‘do’s’, nor do I attempt to wear skin-tight leggings, so I don’t need either extreme end of the knickers spectrum, just the comfy ones in the middle.

We share the secret my gorgeous Divine and me. I savour some squares from time to time, but only when we’re alone, and then, with a sigh of regret for pleasures past, I close the drawer until the next time the chocolate police is ensconced with his Guinness in the pub across the road, swearing at the Chelsea match.

§§§§§§§§§§

I’ve listened to

James by Percival Everett. The retelling of Huckleberry Finn from the Jim, the slave’s point of view. Horrific at times, but very funny, I was reminded of Pilgrims Progress. Every time James and Huck got out of one scrape, they were plunged into another, as bad or worse. I was shocked by some of the more awful passages, the cruelty, the viciousness, (although I probably shouldn’t have been), but in the end it’s an uplifting story and Everett brings it to life magnificently. I’d better read Huckleberry Finn now!

I’ve read

Island of Graves by Gwyn Bennett. this is the third in the Saskia Monet series crime thrillers set in Jersey. A forensic psychologist at the centre of a tangled web, Saskia is a likeable but flawed character and there are story strands left unfinished to whet your appetite for the next in the series.

Dear Mrs Bird by AJ Pearce. Set in London in the Blitz 1941, I loved the warmth of this story told with a very light touch and lots of humour. it’s the first in a series of three and I look forward to reading the next one soon.

I’ve watched at the cinema

Scrapper Brilliant and sensitive debut by director Charlotte Regan. A young, very resourceful girl is trying to carry on living in the house on her own after her mother dies, fooling the authorities into thinking she has a father. When the father she has never known turns up, the process they both go through to get to know and trust one another is both painful and touching. The performance Regan gets from unknown actors was wonderful. well worth seeing.

The Bikeriders. Written and directed by Jeff Nichols, I have state at the outset this is not my kind of film and I only went to see it because our local cinema in France shows English language films on Monday nights, so we go to support and see whatever is provided. The film was uplifted in my eyes by being partly in interview style and the interviewee is Jody Comer. She was brilliant, but the all-pervasive culture of the bikers makes it a dismal film to watch.

On Netflix

Mrs Harris Goes to Paris is a bit of daft starring Lesley Manville, another actor who can do no wrong in my eyes, it’s adapted from a story by Paul Gallic and directed by Anthony Fabian. A 1950s cleaning lady sees a Dior dress in a client’s wardrobe and decides she must have one, but not only have one, but go to Paris to get it. Her adventures are amusing and the array of Dior gowns are stunning. Worth watching for the frocks!

Thanks for reading or listening. I love to get feedback and to hear your reactions to the pieces I write.

Have you had to give up something you love for health or other reasons? Tell me, I’ll sympathise, honest!