I have a friend in her eighties who say’s she never remarried because she was looking for ‘nourishment not punishment’.
It’s a turn of phrase that came quickly to me when I was lying on my bed after a sauna, contemplating another carrot, apple and celery juice for dinner. My sixth juice dinner. Sixth.
That’s because sweet Rachel was preparing a vegetable curry downstairs and the even sweeter tendrils of sauting onion starting sliding under my door.
Fuck off out of my room, just fuck off I didn’t say.
The aussie boy has fallen, a couple of days ago in fact. It’s a fruit and vegetable diet for a few days post fast so til now I haven’t looked at his plate and wanted to elbow him in the bad back. But come on, sauted onions?
I’m not sure I could pull this off in real life. Cossetted away up the Maitai Valley by the chattering river and cheerful birdlife, it’s easy to channel a bit more zen about the juice and glue combo. When we venture into Nelson though, I can feel that surly bitchy sixth former inside me rising back up to take charge. Three hours tops and I have to get back to the safe house.
And now the safe house isn’t safe anymore.
It’s day three and I feel peculiar but not hungry. And the peculiar is in my head more than anywhere else. I am cast adrift from the rhythm of my normal life – the loving preparation of food, the meal table chat, the pleasure of it all. I miss that more than I miss the food, truth be told.
I am thinking my week detoxing before I arrived here was a good thing, although it felt like a bad bad thing at the time. The big crash has possibly maybe hopefully been avoided. Don’t feel sick. Don’t feel headachy. Don’t even feel hungry. Definitely feel empty though.
And I will never look at rasta dreds in the same way again as that’s what I’m accidentally spying in the toilet before I flush. The poo version of them obviously. I haven’t actually eaten anyone’s hair. I’m not hungry enough yet.