The world is just a great big Oreo…

I’ve peed about twenty times today already.

I’m not suffering from elderly urinary incontinence (I’m a mere 41 year old whippersnapper, FFS). It’s just that I’ve consumed All The Herbal Tea In The World as I enter day one of Detox Week – a necessary evil, designed to rid my crumbling body of an accumulation of the icky bad stuff that’s aggravating my many and varied allergies and intolerances.

This morning I enthusiastically packed my lunch bag with some of the most pretentious beverages on the planet, tubs of natural yoghurt and my most positive ‘go me!’ attitude. I felt and continue to feel incredibly ‘Perky Waitrose Mummy’ about the whole thing. Sans those daft patterned gym leggings they all seem to wear. And the litres of Botox. Despite my rumbling tummy I am maintaining a marvellous level of verve, which is most unusual given my standard cynical, sweary demeanour.

The rules of this detox-malarkey itself are actually quite simple:

  • Eat: Vegetables, lean meat without additives or preservatives, natural yoghurt, 50g of brown rice a day
  • Drink: Water/herbal tea
  • Avoid: Everything else
  • Do: Feel virtuous to the point of smug
  • Do not: Kill anyone or take a bite out of another human being  through mistakenly believing them to be an Oreo

Having completed this detox several times, I’m under no illusions. It’s a motherfucker. And I do not say that lightly, being – as I am – both a mother and a bit of a fucker. At some point in the near future I fully expect to find myself hallucinating seas of Spaghetti Bolognese and enduring a prolonged spell of full-blown Pizza Phantosmia. A stroll on the seafront this is not.

And now I’m thinking about fish and chips.

I’d like to say that I will be approaching this next five days with a sense of stoicism and unbreakable resolve, but the truth of it is, I’m going to be an utter arsehole. I will grump and bitch, whinge and moan. I will strop off and throw paddies like a four year old. I’ve beautifully timed this exercise to coincide with my period, which essentially means that I am going to be about as reasonable and approachable as a hungry crocodile with toothache. But I figure that if I must be a carbohydrate-starved, hormonal psychopath, then I should at least try to be efficient about it.

At the moment I feel ok. Salad is tolerable, even without dressing. I like yoghurt. Peppermint tea is my friend. However, tomorrow, I will be hungrily sniffing fats and carbohydrates in the air as I pass cafes. By Wednesday morning my body will be screaming for sugar and I’ll be trying to trick myself into believing that salted caramel green tea is actually more delicious than jam tarts. By 9am on Thursday, I should have reached Peak Deprivation and be weeping outside Starbucks. Should you be in the vicinity and are cruel enough to laugh at a middle-aged woman weeping and clutching a tomato, don’t be at all surprised when you are rendered unconscious by a flying MacBook.

On Friday I will feel triumphant, lighter and less icky. If past experience is anything to go by, my skin will be better, I will be sleeping soundly and my thoughts will be clearer. Which is a bloody good job, because my brain currently feels like someone has grouted tumble dryer fluff to the inside of my skull with Primula cheese. The type with prawns in it. Incidentally, it would be a welcome distraction if anyone cares to explain to me who the fuck actually eats the repulsive stuff. Every minute counts.

On Saturday, as early as polite society allows, I’ll be celebrating completing the week without being arrested. And after two glasses of wine I will be pissed as a rat. All these incredible health benefits AND economical? I can’t think why more people don’t do it…

italyan-pizza

 

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