Day Two :: Fast, Slow

The good news is that between yesterday morning and this morning, I lost four pounds, without doing anything. For the first time in probably about three years, I weigh less than 17 stone. Imagine how that feels. Let me tell you how it feels: it feels good. Good like a fractious garden party in the trim bedding of your own golden drum.

Still on gardening, albeit in the dark, I dreamt last night that I was on Brixton Hill, on a stretch of green next to the prison, but it was really actually The Garden of Eden, and the garden was full of naked fat people offering me sex. Unfortunately, I didn’t want to have sex with any of them. I wanted to eat them. Then my zombified mother came out of the ground with green jelly overflowing from the pockets of her decomposing smock. Or was it brains? No, it was jelly. Fat, translucent, glandular, wibbly-wobbly jelly, which in the cold light of day, I don’t even care for.

Amazing.

I do feel a little light-headed, I must say. But apart from that, I feel good. My stomach is only just starting to make some funny noises, but there has been no pain as yet. In fact, so far it’s been a piece of cake.

Mmmmm, cake.

What’s queer is that foods I haven’t thought about in ages will suddenly appear in my mind with incredible clarity; the taste will suddenly arrive somewhere over my gullet and I’ll picture it and smile. I’ve seen sweets I haven’t eaten since I was knee-high to a careless kitten. I’ve seen the nutty porridge I once ate in the house of an African princess. Aaaaah, Awa Awa. She was looking for someone to write her autobiography and she made porridge from peanuts. It was delightful. She was wonderfully mad, and she came to me last night, as she comes to me now again. Now. O frabjous fasting day!

Well, yes, there is that. But on the whole the day is starting to drag. Mostly because I have a website to populate with words, a very dull website about something to do with money. I’m not sure what exactly, but they pay me well to pretend. It’s very dull and sadly, ever-pressing. And - as if that wasn’t enough - tomorrow morning I must go to another place – leaving this place in the process you understand – to go over the work in person, with a real, live other person. I’m really not looking forward to it because I hate pretending to be an adult. If I may speak frankly.

Since I was given this wonderful opportunity about three weeks ago, my plan of action has thus far consisted of doing as much as possible of absolutely anything at all except the work that needs to be done. Today, now that time is squatting on my chest and threatening to do its business in the pocket of my hoodie, I have still yet to pull my finger out. Indeed, today I have stuck to my overall strategy with surprising conscientiousness and tenacity, wasting masses of precious time and what little physical and mental energy I have left on attending to other, not-at-all pressing matters. Like manipulating digital Jelly Babies.

But now is the time. Enough! My will is like a shield of steel and crack, I say, crack on I must and shall. I’ve got a lot to do. If you want to help me out at all, you could maybe keep me going by letting me know what you’ve eaten today. I think that would really spur me on. I could take sustenance from your second-hand tales of elegant consumption.

Or maybe you could let me know, briefly but in your most succulent, mouth-watering prose, what’s the best thing you’ve ever eaten. Really spell it out for me. The flavours, the textures, the smells, the spices, the flourishes, the breadcrumbs, the chips. Make me want it.

Or if you'd prefer, just mention some meals.

I'd like to start with six superfine slices of raw horse, lightly cooked with lemon juice, squeezed from my own hand. And then a plate of mussels. That's what I'd like. Very much. I wonder if this is what that pregnant man feels like?