February marks the month of famine
Following medical orders, I’ve thrown away the fags and the comfort of a small glass of sherry at the end of the day. My food intake has been reduced to that of a rabbit, a small and desolate rabbit. Consumed with envy, I’ve spent the first three days of the month watching the cat chomping through his bowl of kibble.
Food, what’s that? I’m forbidden all the delights of the kitchen, no lamb chops, no pancetta, no roast chicken, no olives and, what’s infinitely worse, no cheese. I walk around in a hazy dream of triple cream brie.
I could have coffee, but no milk. Bugger that. I’ll go without.
My daily menu consists of one orange, one apple, one slice of dry toast, a small serve of cannellini beans with asparagus and a tiny handful of walnuts. Tomorrow, for crissake, I can indulge in a couple of sardines.
Naturally, I’ve been far too irritable to speak to anyone.
I can scarcely bear to speak to myself.