Illustration of weary dog

“I’m having a go at intermittent fasting.


They say it’s the secret to a happier, healthier, longer life and I figure I’d be daft to knock that back. Still though, I spent a goodly part of last night’s meditation class thinking about spaghetti carbonara. I really tried to find my way to some remote beach on a lush island with a gentle breeze tickling my hair, but my happy place was all about bacon. Crisped to perfection. Mountains of parmesan. Limpid pools of generously egged pasta. The deeper I inhaled, the more I smelt the garlic frying across the road from the community centre, and the less I wanted to hear the instructor’s protracted sermon about juice cleanses. By the time I got home, I was in a rage – a fully incandescent rage; a kicking the bike in the hallway kind of rage. My partner put some hard cheese in my hand and got busy at the stove. Before too long, I was brimming with love for all mankind. Glowing. Radiant. Fully content. Enlightened might be pushing it, but I was definitely altered.”


I’m calling it: eating is the new mindfulness.”