I’m really not one to write about diets. This is probably because I’m really not one to go on a diet, either.
Denying myself of cheese, beer, wine, buttery crumpets, Solero ice creams and Dr Pepper is not really something that I’ve ever considered putting myself through, even if on a quest to lose weight.
Alas, my flight back to Australia is set in stone for early September and I will actually have to go out in public in a bikini at some point, so its time to wave goodbye to the Waitrose scotch eggs, and take some drastic action. (as if depriving myself of scotch eggs wasn’t drastic enough)
Yesterday I started the fasting diet, or 5:2 diet. This is probably the 875th blog post you have seen about this diet. Its literally everywhere. I swear 94% of the British population are on this diet. I had briefly browsed the particulars a while ago and dismissed it, as it involves a couple of days where you can’t eat very much, and I’m still on the lookout for a diet plan that allows me to stuff my face.
The idea is that for two days per week, you can only eat 500 calories worth of food. And the other five, you can eat whatever the hell you want. I guess there’s a stipulation that this is within reason, i.e. try to avoid Pizza Hut all-you-can-eat ‘slice off’ lunches and buying a whole child’s chocolate birthday cake to eat by yourself.
Yesterday was my first ‘fast day’, and I plunged in with zero forward planning. As someone who has never really counted calories, I assumed that 500 calories would be a breeze. I started my day with a banana and a tangerine, and then realised I had eaten 140 calories.
I then had a Go Ahead bar for lunch. This was not a substantial lunch effort, and meant that I spent the entire afternoon looking at menus online, reading reviews of London burger shacks and gnawing on my mouse mat.
I went for a long walk at lunchtime to distract myself and ended up at Leather Lane market, which is packed full of street food carts peddling burritos and cafes flogging lamb kofta wraps. Even food that I would never willingly eat was causing me to salivate. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from Chicken Cottage, and found myself gazing with animal lust at a woman eating a packet of Chipsticks.
I had to sprint headlong back to the office, where after 8 cups of black coffee and a 25 minute motivational session of flicking through shots of Victoria’s Secret models, I realised that I had done no work whatsoever all day, and set off for the gym. Halfway through Body Pump someone told me that you’re not supposed to exercise on fast days, due to lack of energy. Caffeine and nervous adrenaline saw me through, although after the class I saw myriad purple spots sprouting in front of my eyes, and felt as though I’d been out on the beers.
At Liverpool Street station, there was a 20 minute wait for my train. All I had to look forward to in the world was one plain pork chop and a scattering of wilted salad leaves. I wanted to eat my own face. I spent 20 minutes standing on the station concourse surrounded by Burger King, McDonalds and The Pasty Shop; whilst my stomach roared like a disgruntled hippo.
Finally my train arrived, and I could escape from all of these delicious ground-meat smells. I collapsed into a seat, tried to think about anything other than food, and a man got on and sat opposite me – delicately unwrapping a Burger King Double Bacon Cheeseburger. I know it was a Double Bacon Cheeseburger, because I watched every single bite he took and took note of each ingredient oozing its way out of the bun. This was unadulterated cruelty.
By the time I got home, I was ready to flop into a heap and sob on the doormat. I ate my one plain pork chop, drank a glass of tap water, and went to bed in case I ate my Mum. My only comfort was that I had lovingly placed a pork chop crusted with a parmesan and mustard crumb, and a heap of buttery new potatoes into a Tupperware for today’s lunch. On the train this morning it was all I could think about. Just knowing that Tupperware was nestled in my bag between my book and my umbrella left me in a state of total blissful contentment.
On arriving at work this morning, I told anybody that would listen about my fantastic lunch. I was crazed with excitement about eating it at precisely 11.59am. I took out the Tupperware to delight them with the sight of that parmesan and mustard crumb, whipping off the lid with abandon. A few forlorn potatoes rolled in the bottom of the tub. The pork chop was gone.
I looked everywhere – underneath the lonesome spuds, in my handbag in case it had slipped out and glued itself to my iPhone screen, even in the lift in case it had jumped ship on my way into the office. Nope, no pork chop. I have just brought a large plastic tub of cold boiled potatoes into work. I’m devastated.
I am still investigating The Case of the Missing Pork Chop. My money is on my brother to be honest – he is quite a shady character.