I come bearing bad news. Tragic news, in fact. It turns out that if you ditch bread, pasta and chocolate from your diet, you will start sleeping like a baby. Not only that, you’ll wake up with a clear head. You’ll have as much energy as you did…. say, ten years ago. And when you look in the mirror, you’ll notice something odd: your eyes are sparkling.
Over the past three weeks, I’ve learnt an important life lesson that has somehow never quite sunk in before: you are what you eat. So, a month ago, I was a lethargic large deep-pan pizza with a side of anxious Twirl Bites. Today, I am a bouncy wholemeal avocado and hummus wrap with a side of calming kefir.
I have become a food bore. And I can’t help it because I feel like I’ve been given a magic formula that I must share with the rest of the world. Admittedly, I didn’t choose my diet, it chose me when I was diagnosed with gestational diabetes. Under different circumstances, I doubt I would ever have started eating well or had the willpower to continue doing so.
And I can’t cheat, because after every meal, I need to prick my finger with a needle and send my blood sugar levels to the diabetes team at Chelsea & Westminster (the NHS is very efficient on this one). So there’s no room for my usual “ahh go on then, I’ve done so well, just one biscuit can’t hurt.” Because the evidence is right in front of me, captured in a tiny red droplet on my index finger: that biscuit can hurt.
Don’t get me wrong – it hasn’t been easy. I still walk past Gail’s Bakery and feel something that feels disturbingly like lust. I could happily knock back five of their soho buns with a chaser of a cinnamon roll in one session. And the other day, I found myself blurting out, “those Haribo look amazing,” to a receptionist who had some half-open Tangfastics tucked away by her keyboard. But the pay off for all of these unsatisfied cravings has been worth it.
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