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Your support makes all the difference.“Do you fancy doing a juice diet for a week?” I pretended not to hear my wife and buried my head deeper into the fridge. Sadly, the lady was not for turning.
“I think it would be really good for us… kick start the New Year and all that.” I realised that this was not a proposal but an order.
The following day I found myself in an “organic” environment talking to a sallow-cheeked gentleman who looked like he could do with a good feed and whom I suspected was not unfamiliar with the didgeridoo. Money changed hands (I offered to pay in mung beans but this was not accepted) and the deal was done.
So, for the past week, after the school run, we have stopped off at the earth centre and picked up our four bottles of juice. They looked more like bottled enemas but they tasted good. The first couple of days were bearable save for a splitting headache and a total absence of energy, joy and happiness.
The real problem came in trying to live a normal life at the same time. On the rare occasions when I have done this sort of thing before, I’ve been in some spa-type establishment where everything is geared towards your unhappiness. In a spa, you are surrounded by similarly unhappy, hungry people who have also forked out a fortune to be kept captive in a yurt for 10 days. This tends to be quite motivating because there are no refunds and nowhere to get anything but a lentil for miles. Also you can compete with your fellow inmates as to how unhappy you feel/what your stools look like/whether one of the Russians has killed a man?
Doing the juice diet at home, however, was unbearable. I had to cook sumptuous breakfasts for the kids then sit in lunch meetings clinging to a glass of water and watching the clock to see when I could neck my wheatgrass and beetroot concoction. Senses seemed to become heightened. I started to be able to smell something cooking at 500 yards. In the cinema, where I’d hide to pass the time, the sound of everyone dipping into their sweets/crisps became unbearable. And, by the evening, I’d be in a weird state – part suicidal, part homicidal. Anything would tip me over. Watching Celebrity Big Brother, I’d find myself physically assaulting the television when Katie Hopkins appeared. Even my nightly bottle of spinach and okra couldn’t calm me and my family finally banned me from watching until the evil witch is dead (sorry, evicted).
I’d sit and flick through thousands of channels, like Elvis on a bad night, eventually alighting on something like “Nigel Slater’s Totally Pig-Out Now On Lovely Food”. I’d start drooling so much that even my dog got grossed out and left the room (no mean feat I can tell you). By the end of the week I’d supposedly “detoxed” and had lost 4kg. All well and good but the weight will be back on by the end of next week and I still loathe Katie Hopkins. I guess some things are just meant to be.
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