A Lesser Man

After twenty-seven years of marriage, you notice things.

And the thing that I had started to notice was that, every time Caroline found herself talking about food, she also found herself looking at my tummy. She swears that this is subconscious, but acknowledges that it does happen. Random observations like ‘do you fancy an apple?’ merely bring about a quick glance, whilst the preparation of the weekly shopping list eventually morphs into a long, uncomfortable stare. An evening spent watching Masterchef is, as you can imagine, painful for us both.

This, coupled with the arrival of my best man on my doorstep a couple of weeks ago- (socially distanced, of course, Herr Hancock)- cockily announcing that he had lost a stone since the new year, and the recent observation of a farming friend that I appeared to have spent lockdown inside a biscuit tin, finally convinced me that I probably needed to take action. My aim is to lose roughly a stone in vaguely a couple months. I generally like to keep things pretty non-specific on the food front.

Obviously, my first excited port of call was Gwynneth Paltrow’s ‘wellness and lifestyle’ website, Goop, where, for just £274, I could prepare creamy fonio porridge with berries in one of her blush padova saucepans, whilst twirling an oura ring around my little finger. Next, I warped to the far side of the dietary galaxy, and studied the meat-and-dairy only carnivore diet, which I rather approved of, and which I guess that Jeremy Clarkson resorts to on occasion. Then the Paleo diet, the Keto diet and the Atkins diet. These people, I found myself musing, clearly have my own interests front and centre of their business plan, so what could possibly go wrong? Being a writer these days, research like this is something I can do between breakfast and walking the dogs.

‘Just eat less biscuits,’ suggested Caroline.

I hadn’t thought about this approach, I admit, and at first found much to disapprove of in its reductive, uninteresting basis. I mean, where’s the fun in avoiding biscuits? It’s like driving 60 mph on a motorway, and anyone can do it. Equally, as Audrey Hepburn once pointed out, ‘if I get married I want to be very married’, and I decided to give the thing a go, if only for her. Caroline, that is, not Audrey Hepburn.

The rules of my diet are breathtakingly simple. Between meals (which remain completely unaltered), the kitchen is out of bounds, and nothing is to be ingested. No sneaking off to Midhurst for a flat white when I buy the bread; no ‘testing’ whether last night’s risotto will work for lunch this afternoon; no mid-morning toast and marmalade; and, above all, no biscuits. It is not for nothing that United Biscuits, who own McVities, have struggled in the markets these last two weeks.

And so far, it is just about working. I am about 40% of the way there, and am in that tragic phase where the thing I most look forward to in the mornings is telling the weighing scales ‘I told you so’. There have been blips, for sure, but the direction of travel is solid enough.

It’s not Nobel Committee stuff yet, I grant you, but it’s one of those little sideshows of entertainment that make up a life, like seeing how often Chris Whitty uses the word ‘cautious’ in one of his press conferences, or how many blue tits come to the bird table during breakfast.

I just haven’t worked out what to call it yet.