Today is the first day I can remember not feeling hungry for years. Yes, I ate a piece of cake for breakfast, because it was there. I should point out that I don’t usually eat cake for breakfast. I didn’t really want it: like I say, I surprised myself by not being hungry. But I knew it was delicious, wouldn’t keep forever and was quick. I was in a bit of a hurry because it’s group therapy on Monday mornings and I would be travelling and tied up until lunch time and thought I couldn’t last that long. So far so fairly normal: I ate in anticipation. I don’t like to pass up an opportunity to stoke up for later…
I eat in case I will be hungry. As though I am living in times of scarcity, when nothing could be further from the truth. I eat because I have something unpleasant to do. I eat because I have just done something unpleasant. I eat because I am nervous. Or sad. Or cross. Or bored.
What with one thing and another, I eat all the time. It’s mad.
I take a misplaced pride in having essentially zero waste in this house when it comes to food. Obviously, I should not be using myself as a dustbin.
PS This was written some months ago and found in my drafts. I wish I could say that since that day the weight has fallen off me. Sadly, no. And it is surprising actually, because for a couple of months I have been working full time, and not eating at all between meals, and only having salad for lunch. So you would think… but no.
And as for the image: it doesn’t really match the theme of guzzling rubbish, I know.
In fact this was a photo taken in a swanky hotel. And not any old swanky hotel, but the Corinthia, the very one where my ex lived for three and a half months, telling me that his company was paying. During the financial disclosure of our divorce, I saw that he had been spending £60 per day on breakfast in his room (for one?), and the rooms cost (I’ve just checked) between £534 and (I kid you not, and this is for a penthouse, but it still only has one bed) £5994 per night. I don’t know what he paid, but it would be unlike him to get the cheapest room. I also saw in the financial disclosure that the company was not paying. And even if it had: I’d learned that the company was being financed behind my back by…. ME, or should I say, our joint savings.
So when I was meeting one of my new friends who was up in London for the day, I scoured the websites that tell you of special offers, and there was a fixed price menu at the Corinthia – three courses and a glass of bubbly for £25. Bargain! I didn’t want to set foot in the place, the thought brought me out in hives. But my friend, met through a divorce support website, and aware of the significance, thought it would be a good idea. And I’m glad we went. The photo is of my starter, and very nice it was, too. But I wouldn’t want to live there.