I am staying calm...

I am seriously behind.

I know that this is true because I have been looking through Instagram posts at everybody else and they are ready for Christmas. My tree is as big as an entire forest, and that is after it had been pruned back while it was still in the living room, and bits of the twigs are still on the carpet. It is not decorated; though the ladder needed to erect it has been left handily between the armchairs for the last 2 days so that somebody [anybody?] can start to put up the fairy lights. So far there have been no takers.

The gammon joint I bought to boil is too big for the pan and is not cooking properly.

 All the flowers I had gaily dotted about the house to welcome our visitors have died...

 

Flower Morgue

Added to all this is the fact that I ate nine chocolates yesterday because one of my children left a giant box of dairy milk lying around and I was hungry. That is not bad in itself because I like chocolate, but I am trying to lose weight and that was pure gluttony. And that makes me feel bad.

However.

I reckon that the visitors that I am having don’t care too much about the fairy lights on the tree. OK, they do, but they won’t stress if I ask them for help to put them up. They won’t notice if there are no flowers if I greet them with a cup of tea and some bourbon biscuits.

 And I will just roll the gammon over and cook it twice as long.

What I have learned from my worst-organised-Christmas-ever, is that it isn’t the disaster that I thought it would be because I am staying calm. And that is my Christmas gift to you, my friends. Stay calm and let the situations just flow on by without getting upset. 

We can always decorate the tree tomorrow….

I’m burning my boats!

 

Not literally, obviously.

For so many months or years I have been dipping my toe into various diets and ways of eating, but now my husband has Parkinson’s disease my main focus is to feed him nutritious food, cutting out the crisps he so loves and the chocolate and the cider.

And I've made a decision...

Of all the diets that I have researched, I am leaning towards a high fat/ low carbohydrate diet. Not keto, where you eliminate all carbs, but almost paleo, where you eat starchy root veg and fatty meat. The brain likes fat, apparently. And all the membranes of every cell in your body contains fat, and many hormones need some sort of fat contribution to be produced.

One of the mainstays of this way of eating is bone broths. These are described by the Wahls Protocol, by Dr Sarah Myhill in any of her books or Youtube clips, and by Dr Chris Masterjohn on his Youtube channel. You boil up the bones in hot water we will get a gelatin-rich liquid from the breakdown of the cartilage, tendons and ligaments and this will provide what the body needs to form new connective tissue. Connective tissue supports skin and internal organs, and in the form of twisted cables helps to cushion joints, strengthens tendons and ligament; collagen may also play a role in preventing and treating auto-immune diseases.

Bone broth is also said to build healthy teeth, hair and nails and keep some elasticity in the skin. We get the marrow too, and that should contain phospholipids, choline and lecithin, phosphatidyl-ethanolamine [PE] and phosphatidylserine [PS]. PE and PS are vital to nervous system function and are found in the white matter of the brain, nerves and neural tissue. PS is known to improve brain function and mental acuity, so you can see why I want to get it down my husband.

Of course, you can get all this from supplements, and people avoid fatty meats now because they are scared of cholesterol. But supplements only provide glucosamine and chondroitin which are just two of the many raw ingredients the body needs for collagen repair and production. And cholesterol is part of every cell in your body too – part of the lipid bi-layer of the membranes. It should only be those who have familial hypercholesteraemia that need to avoid fat.

So here we go. My bones are in hot water on the Aga and I aim to have a bone broth bubbling away most of the time to make nourishing soups and stocks. 

Christmas comes full circle

Do you ever wonder why it is that childhood Christmases seem so idyllic when we look back at them?

I’ll tell you why:

1.      We were the children and not the ones who had responsibility for creating the perfect experience.
2.       We didn’t have to do the shopping or the cooking.
3.       We didn’t have to deal with family politics.
4.       We were the ones who got sackfuls of presents.
5.       We didn’t have to do the washing up.
6.       Although we might have been aware things didn’t always run smoothly, it wasn’t our problem.

The only negative thing about Christmas I can remember is wanting to be an angel in the school nativity play at the age of about five, and being told I wasn’t blonde enough. However, if one of the blonder angels should drop out I could take her place. Of course, nobody dropped out of the angel line up so I never got to put on the wings and tinsel and join the heavenly host.

Christmas was a time set apart, a time to play games together as a family, a time for the sort of treats we didn't see the rest of the year. Really special. 

The years rolled by, and the age of partying came and went. Eventually parenthood arrived and the Christmas responsibilities increased at the same rate as the family did. It was great to make a good time for the children. We had some lovely times as a family. Things weren’t too complicated, there wasn’t enough money to go mad. It never occurred to me to get into debt to buy the kids fancy presents, but they didn’t mind (at least they tell me they didn’t). I wasn’t pressured by ads on TV because we didn’t have one. We made our own family traditions, kept things reasonably simple and enjoyed ourselves, even though it was hard work.

Then somehow things got more complicated or maybe I was just getting older. My parents and parents in law started to give me money to buy presents for the family. I completely understand that and I now do the same for my grandchildren – much better than wasting money on something they might not like. Grandparents are notoriously bad at gauging what young people want. It also puts a stop to grandparents buying stuff that annoys the parents, like drums and whistles and toys that play irritating tunes and drive you up the wall. However, it did mean that I had to find three sets of presents for each child plus stocking fillers. This was before internet shopping too, so lots of trawling the shops.

Anyway, long story short, one year I started to realise I was dreading Christmas and I had to admit it.

 I’m not one of those amazing hostesses who are organised and efficient. No way could I live up to the image in my head of how I ought to be. So, sadly there came a time when I just didn’t like Christmas at all. Too much scope for getting everything wrong. Too much stress. Not enough time and energy.

But with age comes a measure of wisdom. You get to see the bigger picture and you no longer care about getting everything just perfect. So now I refuse to get in a tizzy about anything. I will get to see all the family in one go, at least all the ones who live in the UK, at the annual Family Knees-up. I’ll have another Christmas Day with my precious parents who never criticise my cooking or anything else. No weary shopping trips, it’s all done online.  No worrying if the presents I’ve given are ok. I’m warm and cosy among the twinkling lights here; the cupboards are full of treats. Basically, it’s almost like a second childhood only with alcohol, and I’m free to enjoy it all again.

What would we do without Pinterest?

Dark days, I haven’t been out with my camera for a week so I was climbing the walls with frustration. The weather has just been too bad, and the days so short.

So, I decided to make the best of things and find other – indoor – creative outlets.

This week I’ve been attempting to paint on glass, inspired by Pinterest posts. I went to town to see if I could find any suitable glass jars in charity shops to practice on, but no. So I bought a cheap jar in Wilko’s and also found a source of chalk paint there.

I thought I’d better have a practice go with the cheap jar before I risk investing in the Ball and Mason jars which I admire so much. They don’t seem to be as common here as in USA.

So this is my version. Add a few silk flowers and I’m fairly pleased with it. I’m prepared to invest in the fancy jars now but would really prefer to upcycle some used ones. Maybe Kilner jars would do…

I’ve also done a bit of festive cooking inspired by Pinterest, namely a Christmas tree breadstick creation. Like many others who had a go at this one, I shared my effort on Pinterest and was heartened to see what a mess some people made of it. Mine wasn’t too bad if I do say so myself.

I also had a bash at Brie and Cranberry bites. As I’m the only one here, including the dog, who likes like Brie or cranberries I had to eat them all myself. Shame, wasn’t it. They weren’t as photogenic as the ones on Pinterest that inspired me, but they tasted fine. Anything with Brie in it tastes fine to me. I was too proud to take a picture of them because they looked a bit sad. Besides, I’d eaten them before I thought of it.

I did attempt to make sweet potato crisps, but that was such a fiasco that I can’t bear to talk about it. However, there is plenty more inspiration on Pinterest. 

Anyone got any Ball and Mason jars they don't want? 

I'll settle for Kilner.

Anyone?...

Hände hoch!

 

I was going to call this blog post 'Fraternising with the Enemy' on a whim. But that isn't fair, nor is it true. But still, if my grandparents could have seen me this week they would have been surprised. For someone born in the '50s, and brought up on post-war videos I have experienced my first holiday in the country that bombed us, so we bombed them... you know how it goes.

In one street we passed a young father strapping a toddler into his car seat. He said 'Hände hoch!' and we had to smile. Those words are imprinted on our minds as a phrase shouted repeatedly by young German soldiers rounding up prisoners and pointing their rifles at them, in war film after war film. Hands up!

But. I must say. I like the Germans; I can hardly believe that the landlord of our B&B had grandparents that probably fought our grandparents. It was a bit surreal...

Now that we have a son who lives and works in Germany we had a good opportunity to visit.  We landed at Frankfurt and dropped into a loud and trendy restaurant with a Disney buffalo theme [see above]. It was an eyeopener for parents in their 60's, but such fun. 

Our son lives about an hour from Frankfurt in a quaint village where everything is in walking distance. We were most interested in the cafe which opened at 6.00am, and we strolled over for breakfast and feasted on hot coffee and rolls. And later in the evening, we drove to the next town to sample authentic German schnitzel;  Schweineschnitzel. We visited his friends and families in their homes, which were mostly quaint and old-fashioned but imbued with a definite sense of homeliness and warmth. 

The village that we stayed in had a giant tower that is encased in a red cover topped with an electric candle which lights up during the Christmas period. We were a bit too early to experience their Christmas Market, but stalls had begun to be set up in the cobbled market square. I am sure the area must be bustling when the market starts but honest to goodness, we hardly ever saw a soul. The odd passerby was glimpsed through our windows, but where was everybody? It appears they all get up earlier than us and are at work by the time we are having breakfast.

My misconceived impression of Germans as stiff and stoic, joyless and authoritarian was completely overturned, I mean - just think of that candle. When we were with his friends we had a hilarious evening or two; they laugh loud. They did like to goad us about Brexit, but I refused to go there. I withstood teasing about my Tetley tea bags that I had fortunately brought with me; they called it Brexit Tea. 

About tea. Proper tea - it needs looking for. I mostly got offered Earl Grey, which is nice in its own way, but not acceptable when you are needing a big mug of builder's. Or they had Rooibus, which was, quite frankly, disgusting. That is not their fault. I would find it disgusting in any country. Anyway, here are some pics...

Look what I have got!

After waiting patiently for over 7 years, I have got one!

I started off with a 4-oven, white, gas-fired beauty many years ago, then swapped for an elderly cream 2-oven after moving house some years later, then to nothing after moving again.

Now finally, after I have been quietly pining away, we have a shiny, navy blue, second-hand gas friendly, warm, cosy Aga. It is sitting there in my kitchen, with a large kettle on the top waiting to make tea.

Why did I want one? I can’t tell you. But when we brought home the first one, a snip at £500, I ran my hands along the solid iron top and felt like I had come home. All other cookers were mere toys to me; I know I had many people to cook for, so this may have had something to do with it.

I don’t have that excuse now, a mere 4 people live in this house. I can cope with my electric hob and my electric oven half way up the wall in a box. But I don’t like them, I never warmed to them.

When the children were little, and we had that 4 oven Aga, the baking and roasting was done using the instructions as follows:

Hot stuff like roasting – top right

Medium temp stuff like baking cakes – bottom right

Warming plates, keeping food hot and overnight slow cooking – top left

Keeping kids feet warm – bottom left.

All my recipes had cooking instructions written with ‘cook 40 minutes top right’, or ‘bake 20 mins bottom right’, or ‘leave overnight top left’, which meant they were difficult to share with friends who had no Aga.

In the Autumn and Winter the kids would come in cold and damp after school, kick their shoes off, and lay on the rug on the kitchen floor in a perfect semi-circle with their chilly feet warming slowly in the bottom left. This was the ‘cold feet’ oven, and no food was ever cooked in it.

When I was pregnant and I couldn’t sleep, I would creep downstairs for a quiet cuppa. As I was up and in the kitchen I thought I might as well use the heat of the oven and knock up some chocolate flapjack ready for the next day. Have you ever smelt chocolate flapjack as it comes out of a hot oven? The melted chocolate and syrupy sweet aroma is very pungent, and the smell wafted up the two and a half flights of stairs to the top floor, and slowly, one by one, the children would drift sleepily down, rubbing their eyes, asking where that lovely smell was coming from and could they eat it.

And after I’d had the baby, the grab rail that runs along the entire length of the cooker was an ideal aid to enable me to do exercises, rather like the bars ballerinas have while making me a cup of tea or roast dinner at the same time. Wet clothes will dry hanging above it. Cold pyjamas will warm on the rail ready to slip children into before they go to bed. Cups of tea will stay warm if left on the top, while you go and sort something out. Dinners can be put in the warming oven for late-comers, with no need for a microwave.

Come and have a cuppa by my Aga. I think you might like it…

The arrival...

Hygge time again

I’ve just got back from walking the dog and am happily ensconced with a cup of tea on the sofa wrapped in a warm and generously proportioned jumper. I may not have an open fire crackling in the grate but it feels like I have, I’m so comfy. I have to stop myself from getting up to put another log on the imaginary fire. This is my English version of hygge with knobs on, and I love it.

It’s a soul-wrenchingly beautiful autumn morning out there, so beautiful that I have to have a sit down to recover. I love these autumn days as the year is dying. To be out there where the colours are so vivid and the air is crisp but slightly misty in the mornings. The grass is wet and the dew is still hanging in the spider webs among the teasels. The sun is struggling to stay out before the grey clouds win the battle and the day becomes dull and damp. It won’t be long before the weather turns foul, if you can believe the forecast.

Once again I feel a rush of gratitude to my dog for existing and giving me a reason for getting out in the early morning.

I have to go out later this morning in the wild wet weather, but I’m well prepared. Thanks to Lola, Kate’s dog, eating my coat last week it’s been replaced by a far superior one I found in a sale at the weekend. It’s great, a proper dog-walking-in-all weathers sort of coat. So, bring it on! It only makes coming home more pleasurable.

Cats vs Cucumbers, or ...Four mad dogs and a grandson.

This is about a day spent babysitting one grandson (as above) and four lively dogs (see below).

Archie ‘the devil I know’

Sam 'I'll be your shadow'

Elmo ‘The Lookout’

Lola ‘Butter wouldn’t melt…’

When my daughter Kate asked me if I could babysit for her again one day this half term while she went to work I was happy to say yes. For one thing, I knew I would get a good spicy dinner out of it. As she lives a good 50 minutes drive away, more if you add in rush hour traffic, I would go there on Sunday afternoon in order to be on the spot on Monday morning. To make it an even better deal, she offered to pick me up on Sunday and take me home after work on Monday. Suits me!

I thought what a good idea it would be to take Archie with me. What fun it would be for him. He gets so bored being an Only Dog. This would provide him with some Pack experience, because Kate has not one dog but two, and sometimes (as this time) three when she looks after her fiancé’s lively dog as well.

So, Kate rocked up on Sunday afternoon with a car boot full of dogs. We quickly added Archie to the mix and loading me and my bags on board we set off.

In the morning the dogs woke up early ready for breakfast and a lively day chasing each other around the house. Every so often Sam or Lola, sometimes both, would insist on lying all over me for a rest. Archie was relegated to a blanket on the floor. Elmo kept watch at the window while the others got their breath back. Then off they all went again.

My grandson James fortunately wasn’t quite as lively as the dogs, at least not during the morning. He was happy to play some sort of golf game on his iPad and talk to me about it. I like to listen, so we were both happy. Mid-morning, we got ourselves a snack and drink and the dogs amused themselves continuing to establish the pecking order and belting round the house like mad. Elmo, the small one with a Napoleon complex, had obviously decided that he is Top Dog and also that it is up to him to keep a look out. Stationing himself from time to time at a bedroom window, he barked at the slightest provocation and all the others joined in dutifully. We were downstairs so didn’t care. Archie had to learn to take orders from the Top Dog.

It was a pleasant morning finding out stuff I didn’t know. Amazing how much you can learn from your grandchildren! This is where Cats vs Cucumbers comes into it. James, taking a short break from talking about golf, brought me up to speed on the subject. Apparently, would you believe, lots of people have tried to see how their cats react to an unexpected cucumber. A cucumber is placed near a cat when it’s not looking, then when it notices it the reaction is filmed and shared on YouTube. And believe me, sometimes the reaction is well worth a look! Some cats don’t react much or ignore it. Other cats are completely spooked and leap yowling into the air. Somebody has collected these videos and put them together, keeping score. Cucumbers were definitely winning as far as I could see. I am deeply indebted to James for showing me this and I intend to buy a cucumber as soon as possible and try it out on our cat. My hunch is that he will ignore it.

Anyway, back to babysitting.

At lunchtime Kate came back for a short break and we took the dogs for a rather hectic walk in the woods nearby.

During the afternoon James got livelier and the dogs quietened down a bit. After a nail biting time watching James play indoor golf with a thin branch and a real golf ball, I thought I’d take a quick photo of all the dogs napping companionably together upstairs. It wasn’t until after I’d snapped Lola sleeping and I was editing the picture that I realised she was sleeping on my new coat. Having hefted her off it I discovered she’d actually been eating it and had chewed holes in the area of the pocket I usually put dog treats in. Typical beagle. Very food motivated. I should have known better than to leave the coat where she could get it. That dog could even tell from a distance when I was going into the kitchen. Very impressive!

Now I'm just waiting for an opportunity to use the excuse ' Sorry I can't..... the dog ate my coat'

Kate got home from work just in time to stop James dying of boredom. I’m not a very exciting sort of Nana really, but at least I didn’t stop the indoor golf and no windows/vases/bones were broken. Well, I had a good time anyway and Archie had enough fun and excitement to last a month at least.

Now I’m off to buy a cucumber…

I may not have done it if I'd known how hard it was going to be...

Bit of a scary picture...

Many years ago as a young housewife I used to read social history books, and wondered what mothers used to do when their children became ill before the advent of the NHS, especially if they couldn’t afford the services of a doctor. I came across accounts of women using blackberry leaves, elderberries, Chamomile flowers, vinegar and brown paper.

Where, I wondered, could I find out how to make some of these interesting remedies, and if I did make them would they work? I looked in my local newspapers for day courses or ‘herbal weekends’, but as this was before the days of social media and my laptop, I found nothing. All I really wanted was somebody to show me how to make stuff like Rosemary infused oil, and tell me why and how I should use it. Or how to go about growing, harvesting and drying Chamomile flowers to make my own tea.

A year or two later I was listening to a radio interview with a herbalist, and he was being asked questions about training, and about herbs as medicine. Herbs were a part of a proper system of medicine? In the 20^th Century? It appeared that they were, and that this man had learnt all about them and had a medical practice where he saw patients, prescribed medicine and helped them get better. As my hands were wrist deep in the kitchen sink I couldn’t write down his name or contact details, but my interest was piqued.

A short time after this I was leafing through a glossy women’s magazine when I came across a piece on complementary therapies. The point of the article was to reveal how women who had been chronically sick had invested time and money in certain therapies and recovered. Among these women was one who had been ill for years and in the end all the doctors could do was to keep her on steroids. In desperation she visited a medical herbalist and within about 6 months she was better. So impressed was she with the approach and treatment and lack of side effects that she decided to train as a Medical Herbalist herself, and bless her, she gave the contact details of NIMH, an organisation of which I had never heard…

I was on the phone the very next day. I signed up. Instead of the few weekends or the day course that I had originally looked for, I committed myself to 6 years of training. I didn’t just study the herbs themselves [marvellous and wondrous things that they are] but to practice safely and effectively I also had to study the same subjects a GP would have to do: Anatomy & Physiology, Medical Microbiology, Immunology, Embryology, Histology, Pathology, Pharmacology, Clinical Medicine, Clinical Examination Skills, Biochemistry, Differential Diagnosis and Case History taking to make sure I understood what was going on in the body and the disease process. To that was added Pharmacognosy, Botany, Pharmacy, Herbal Therapeutics, Materia Medica, History of Herbal Medicine, Public Health and the patient relationship.

This training was invaluable, as it produced practitioners who not only knew about herbs and their actions but also about disease processes within the human body, about contraindications and red flags, how to examine a patients – to palpate, auscultate, use an ophthalmoscope and otoscope, take blood pressure and urine samples, interpret blood test results and give lifestyle and dietary advice.

I now run a private clinic where I see patients, and I tutor students who want to become professional practitioners at the School of Herbal Medicine. These students have the same vision as I had – to use medicinal plants to bring people back to health where possible without exposing them to factory-made chemical drugs which so often cause as many problems within the body as they try to solve.

Herbs are powerful agents of healing; they need not be confined to the home treatment of minor conditions, but to use them within an effective and safe system of medical care a certain amount of training must be undertaken. The use of herbs within such a system of medicine has been protected through the work of agencies like The National Institute of Herbal Medicine. If you are interested in the training to become a professional practitioner then NIMH have details on their website.

www.schoolofherbalmedicine.co.uk

info@theschoolofherbalmedicine.co.uk

www.nimh.org

https://theschoolofherbalmedicine.wordpress.com/ 

https://www.facebook.com/TheSchoolofHerbalMedicine/

I may regret this...

I was leafing through a women’s magazine at work the other day (it’s OK, I’m allowed to) and came across an article about older women who continue in paid work beyond retirement age. By the way, I’m getting tired of being fed the idea that it’s brilliant to work until you drop. OK if your job is something you love to do and you have the health and mental wellness to do it. Not so great if it’s something you have to do and it’s exhausting and/or boring. I suspect there's a collusion between the government and the media, a subtle campaign to sell the idea of retirement at 70 – or whatever age they want to push it to – in order to avert a revolution. Anyway, I digress…

One of the people featured in this article was a woman aged around 70 I think, who was still working as a fashion model. Good for her if that’s what she wants, but the thing that jumped out the page at me was her long grey hair which, not meaning to be unkind, I have to say was straggly. Taken together with the wrinkles it was not a look I felt I would like to copy. Now I’m not against owning up to wrinkles. Not much you can do to hide them even if you wanted to. No, they are a kind of badge of honour – aren’t they? But long thinning straggly grey hair?

So I took a long hard look in the mirror…

I’ve almost always had long hair, ever since I was 13 and felt mature enough to rebel against the hair cutting sessions Mum held in the kitchen. The family were lined up and sheared in age order, but at least Mum had a decent pair of hair cutting scissors. No kitchen shears or pudding basins were involved, I’ll give her that.

So, ever since that tender age it’s been long locks for me. Saggy and I had always wanted to walk in Loose Valley wearing (then unfashionably) long skirts and let our hair down to feel the wind blowing through it. But I digress again…

What I’m trying to say is this: having had a good long look in the mirror I had to admit that my hair is thinning somewhat, and although I quite liked the grey and white combo it’s turned, it looked a mess. Sadly I had to admit to myself that the days of lovely long locks flowing in the breeze were a thing of the past for me. Now, I know that long grey hair can look fabulous on some women, e.g. Saggy. But not me.

So, I’ve decided to go for something a lot shorter. It feels a bit weird and I may regret it by next week. I think it makes me look a bit more like the mad dog lady that I styled myself last year and a bit less like the mad photographer lady I was planning on becoming. Its already starting to look a mess again.

Never mind, maybe I’ll grow it out again…

This is no ordinary toilet....

I know what some of you are thinking; that this is indeed no ordinary toilet. It is a sub-standard toilet that you wouldn’t give house room to. 

And in many ways you would be right.

However, this toilet has an advantage which has brought it close to my heart.

It is in a field, in the middle of nowhere, in the Quantocks.

And it is the difference between me Going Camping and me Not Going Camping. It is a hidden gem in a Hideaway Site where Not Many People Camp because you have to be a member of the camping club and pay them money on a regular basis.

To be fair, most people camp now with caravans, and expect electrical hook-ups and a shower block and even a shop! These types of sites are fine for some people who also need to bring their laptops and TVs and microwaves and who just swap sitting at home on a sofa watching soaps, to sitting in a field on a sofa watching soaps.

 [Ouch, that sounds a bit harsh…]

But this isn’t my kind of camping at all. I like the grass under my feet and the wind in my hair, the fiddling with the Bunsen-burner type of cooker to magically produce pancakes which are eaten as the sun comes up and you hear and smell the cows in the next field. Where you fall asleep at night and can still hear the horses in the next field chewing grass. All this I love.

However, I may have waxed lyrical about the joys of camping, the meals cooked in the fresh air, the views, the flapping of canvas and the noise of opening zips, but – and it is a very big but – I will 100% refuse to go anywhere without some form of toilet facilities. I am not crouching behind a bush or digging holes or using dock leaves instead of toilet paper. I’m just not. This makes camping in the ‘away from it all’ places a bit complicated.

And so to find this field, which is flat, with a view, which is isolated, and has a fire pit with seating, and has its own toilet, with sink, hand soap, towel, toilet paper, toilet cleaner and brush and air freshener was, well, it was amazeballs.

I could tell you where this toilet is, but then it wouldn’t be a hidden gem…

It was going so well...

In the interests of improved health, increased energy, better sleep and general well-being I decided a few weeks ago to cut right down on my sugar intake. I was delighted with how well it was going.

No biscuits, no cake, no desserts, no sugar filled processed food… well, almost!

I allowed myself a dessert when we went out for a birthday dinner.

I've had one square of high quality chocolate very occasionally.

My son gave me a box of chocolates for my birthday two weeks ago and I have had ONE of them on two separate days. A Sunday treat. So proud of myself!

My sleep started to improve. I cut down on the painkillers I was taking. Not saying I’ve lost any weight though – I’m too cowardly to step on the scales and my clothes aren’t getting any looser yet.

Progress has been a bit slow, but I WAS getting there.

And then I went to a coffee morning. Not just any old coffee morning either. This was a fund raising charity Macmillan Coffee Morning run by a very talented cake maker and her equally talented cake making friends. You should have seen the cakes that were there! A table in the lounge groaned under its load of beautiful cupcakes packaged in their attractive boxes. In another room there were sponge cakes, chocolate cakes, you-name-it cakes…

Then there was this amazing lemon drizzle cake. It had our name on it because we had ordered it with deliberate gluttony aforethought….  

So the question is this ... is it OK to eat cake if its for charity? 

Long story short, although we bought two boxes of cupcakes I didn’t actually eat any of them. Iron willpower, eh! But the lemon drizzle was another matter.

To be honest, I can quite easily resist cakes with icing and stuff, but give me a good moist lemony drizzle cake and I have practically no willpower to get me past it. After the first couple of slices I had to whip the rest into the freezer before I demolished the lot.

The trouble is, once you fall off the wagon you start thinking along the lines of ‘in for a penny, in for a pound’ and ‘might as well be hung for a sheep as for a lamb’ etc. So after a careless couple of days of increased sugar intake one way and another, and paying the price health wise, I’m back on the wagon because I feel so much better that way.

What happened to the cupcakes if I didn’t eat them? Well, naturally  I spent a happy hour or two photographing them. It’s what I do.

Then we gave them away…