THE GOLDEN YEARS

I have a favourite memory of my dad. As a kid, whenever we had treacle sponge pudding, he’d load up his spoon with Tate & Lyle’s golden syrup and hold it high in the air above his dish. Then, as me and my two sisters watched with baited breath, he’d turn the spoon and as the syrup dripped downwards he’d move his dish backwards and forwards. Sometimes the syrup hit its target, often it missed the sponge and splattered onto the table. It didn’t matter. We thought my dad was the funniest man in the world.

Recently, I had some hypnotherapy sessions to try to get to the bottom of my emotional eating and my dad came up a lot. I remembered the summer holidays eating doughnuts on the sand (I never did get the jam off my Bay City Rollers t-shirt). Sunday high tea with Fondant Fancies and Battenberg cake. Birthday celebrations at Chinese restaurants. My dad was in every memory, goofing around with chopsticks, fashioning hats out of napkins, making me laugh so much tea dribbled out of my mouth.

I cried buckets thinking about my dad, who died eleven years ago, but through the tears came a powerful realisation. I eat to make myself happy.

Weirdly (or stupidly) I’d never made this link. I struggled to believe I actually was an emotional eater because, as far as I could tell, I pigged out pretty much all the time. Had a bad day? Eat. Had a good day? Eat. Bored. Restless. Nervous. Eat. Eat. Eat. That’s not emotional eating, I thought. That’s just greed.

Now I’ve figured it out. Food, for me, equals joy, laughter, silliness, fun, childlike abandon. And who wouldn’t want more of that in their life? When I’m having a tough time, I turn to food to elevate my spirits. When life’s good, I binge on food because I don’t want those happy feelings to end. Food is my happy place, and I want to stay there.

I can’t, of course. Not if I don’t want to be airlifted off my chocolate-stained sofa. Instead, I need to seek non-edible alternatives to happiness. I’ve made a start. I’ve replaced Cadbury’s bars with back-to-back comedy show. Swapped stuffing my face with salsa classes. And I’m volunteering at the local school. With no kids of my own, it’s one step closer to that childlike freedom I’m craving.

So thanks, dad. You’re no longer here but in your own crazy way you’ve helped me find my way again. As it’s  Father’s Day, I’d like to make a toast, so everyone, please, raise a spoon to my lovely, funny dad.

KO’D BY A PORK BELLY

I was wondering when I could bring up my story about being knocked out by a pork belly. It involved a pork belly, obviously, a ride in an ambulance and an overnight stay in Bedford A&E. All because of a pork belly. It was all a bit silly really. One of those Helen episodes – like the one where I nearly got run over by my own car – that has friends rolling their eyes and laughing hysterically. At me. Not with me.

Anyway, now that ambulances are in the news, what with them being kitted out with pricey gear to shuttle the obese to hospital, I thought it was as good a time as any to tell you the pork belly story.

It was last summer and I was enjoying a lovely meal at the local gastro pub with my friend Louise. We both started with the salmon blinis. Delicious but enormous – like fish-covered UFOs. The pork belly arrived soon after. A bit too soon really, as I was still sort of digesting, but I don’t hang around where crackling’s concerned so I got stuck in. Half way in, I surreptitiously undid my jeans to free one of my belly rolls. And after that the evening went a bit pear-shaped.

I suddenly felt a bit light-headed, sweaty and sick so I stepped outside to get some air. One minute I was sitting at one of the al fresco tables, the next I was aware of some stupid bitch screaming hysterically – I later learned it was Louise, who’d seen me slump to the concrete floor. She thought I’d had a heart attack. She’s a trained nurse so I don’t think she was being unnecessarily dramatic.

It took me a while to realise what was going on, but the paramedic was very patient. ‘Do you know where you are, Helen?’ I nodded. ‘Don’t move your head, Helen. Does your head hurt?’ I nodded. ‘Don’t move your head, Helen. I’m just going to check your neck, ok?’ I nodded. She asked more questions. I nodded, and shook my head and nodded again. I just really wasn’t in the mood for being chatty.

By this time a small gathering had formed. To be fair, not much happens in my village so this sort of Saturday night floorshow was quite a talking point. A man placed his jacket on top of me. I think he did it out of kindness to the audience, who may have been put off their desserts by the sight of my exposed belly rolls. I tried to do up my jeans – not so easy when you’re flat out on the floor surrounded by gawpers. One of them noticed someone she knew and proceeded to have a chat about her holiday in the Seychelles. She was within ankle-biting distance. But I thought I better not move my head.

I was now rather desperate to pay the bill and get home. I had a banging headache and was one head nod away from throwing up. I also suddenly realised I was bleeding (nothing major, my face had smashed into the table on my descent and my nose had taken a bit of a battering). So I was mortified when I was picked up and popped in the ambulance.

I’d never ridden in an ambulance before and, let me tell you, it’s not a lot of laughs. Not when you’re strapped into a stretcher with a neck brace and can’t move and want to puke. Not when you’re starting to have a panic attack because you’re strapped into a stretcher with a neck brace and can’t move and want to puke. And not when you’re tilted to a forty-five degree angle so if you do puke you don’t choke to death. Laughs? There were none.

Spending Saturday night in hospital wasn’t such a hoot either. I passed out again mid-vomit (Louise’s hysterical screaming brought me back round). I thought I was having a stroke when I couldn’t get my words out to flirt with the porter who was wheeling me off for a scan. And I was repeatedly interrogated by a humourless medic. ‘How much did you drink? Have you taken any drugs?’ he asked. ‘No drugs,’ I told him, ‘and just one glass of prosecco.’ About an hour later he returned and asked the same question. I gave him the same answer. Another hour, another white-coated man, another similar Q&A. I looked down at my New Look sandals. Earlier that evening, I thought they’d signalled ‘sexy and sophisticated’, but obviously they just screamed binge-drinking old slapper. One of the paramedics popped his head round the curtain. ‘Cheer up, love. You’ll feel much better when you’ve sobered up.’

Anyway, back to the ambulance. At the time, I did think there was room for improvement. It was a bit cramped in the back what with me on the stretcher and Louise and the two paramedics on vomit watch. A bit of extra room would’ve been lovely. Maybe a cosy armchair in the corner for non-emergency passengers. A telly, perhaps? A food trolley if you were feeling peckish. And the lighting needs to be sorted. When you feel like death the last thing you need is those overhead strip lights making you look like it too.  

I’m wondering if the NHS would oblige. New obesity ambulances are reportedly set to cost up to £90,000 each. They’ll be kitted out with double-width trolleys stretchers, heavy-duty hoists and inflatable lifting cushions. If they could throw in some bean bags and a couple of IKEA lamps, I reckon they’re onto a winner.

ONE MOVIE AND A SUPER-SIZED HEART ATTACK, PLEASE

Last week I went to see The King’s Speech. It was a b-b-b-b-b-brilliant movie. What wasn’t so g-g-g-g-g-great was the queue of people waiting to fill up with pre-film snacks. I’m sorry but I just don’t get why Colin Firth has to come with a mega-bucket of popcorn and so-big-you-can-barely-carry-it-coke. Granted Firth doesn’t emerge in a wet white shirt but surely that’s no reason to drown your sorrows in a vat of fizzy sugar.

It’s a real bugbear of mine that cinemas serve up such high-salt, high-sugar, high-fat crap. I’m there to be entertained, not primed for an early heart attack. Yet mention that to people and I get short shrift and hard stares. Junk food, it would seem, is part of the cinema experience. As a popcorn refusenik I’m labelled difficult, boring, a spoilsport. I once had to buy a packet of Revels (the size of a shopping bag, obviously) just to appease the friends I was with. Chocolate addict, dark room, limitless supply – just like the movie, it didn’t end well.

What riles me most, though, is the popcorn pushers. They’re like used car salesmen with extra sugar. They’ve got the smiles and the spiel and they want to sell you popcorn like their life depends on it. Which it probably does. A friend of mine’s daughter works at the multiplex near her uni and she recently won thirty quid’s worth of vouchers – enough for a new outfit at Primark and a couple of cheap vodkas – for her super-selling skills. She says it’s all in the eye contact. Someone comes up to the counter to buy popcorn, you look them in the eye and suggest they up-size for, ooh, about fifty pence more. Who can resist a pair of pleading student eyes and the economic reality that you can get more, so much more, for your money?

Well me, for one. But resisting temptation isn’t easy. It’s making me argumentative. Cinemas, shops, restaurants – everywhere I go I’ve started kicking off. The rows usually go something like this one that happened in a takeaway cafe recently:-

‘Would you like bread with your soup?’

‘No thanks.’

‘It’s free.’

‘I know. But I don’t want it, thanks.’

‘But it’s free.’ (Friendly voice now getting insistent)

‘I know. Thanks. But I’m good without it. Thanks.’ (Friendly voice now getting pissed off)

‘It’s this bread here. It’s free.’

‘OK. Can I have a granary roll instead of the white bread?’

‘No. You have to pay for the granary roll. The white bread is free.’ (Voice now sounding confused)

‘Don’t worry. I’ll just take the soup.’

‘You know you can have a free coke with that too, don’t you?’

‘Can I have a bottle of water instead?’

‘No. You have to pay for the water, but the coke is free.’

‘Can I just have the fucking soup?’

If you’re out and happen to see a red-faced, arm-waving, mouth-twitching lunatic who’s NOT carrying bread or coke, that’s me.

EAT. EXERCISE. EAT.

I’m in a chicken or egg dilemma. No, I’m not wondering whether I should poach my eggs or fry ’em with bacon and sausages. Poach the chicken or roast it with potatoes and bread sauce. No, I’m wondering what comes first. The exercise or the eating.

I exercise so I can eat (as opposed to eating less so I don’t have to exercise). Post-workout, the first thing I do is eat. It might be a handful of peanuts. It might be a handful of Maltesers. Hey, it might only be half an hour until lunch. But I eat. And up until now my brain has okayed this with me. My brain tells me that I deserve it. That I’ve sweated for it. That I might even faint from hunger without it. At least that’s what I think my brain’s telling me. My brain is actually probably telling me to stop being a greedy guzzler but my head’s too far into the biscuit barrel to hear.

The way I’ve always looked at it, if I exercised I could afford to eat. I’d burnt off some calories so I had some leeway with food. What were a couple of Hob-Nobs between me and the treadmill? Quite a lot, as it happened, but maths was never my strong point. So there was me thinking that if I exercised I had carte blanche to eat.  That the yin and yang of calories would balance out. That I could eat without putting on weight. That sweating meant stuffing my face. Well calorie karma, my arse!

Turns out, I’m doing what a lot of other poor deluded people are doing. I’m burning off the calories then bingeing on an iced bun. I see food as a reward for my hard work on the rowing machine. What I don’t see is that I’m over-compensating for exercising – and overeating as a result.

And apparently exercise can derail you in other ways too. Terry Wilkin, professor of endocrinology and metabolism at the Peninsula Medical School in Plymouth, has conducted a long-term study on children with obesity. He found that kids who did a lot of PE at their school went home and blobbed out, while the kids who did less PE at their school were generally more physically active outside of the school gates. It makes sense. As much as I usually enjoy it once I get there, I still view a trip to the gym as a bit of a chore, so when I’m done I don’t have any inclination to do any other physical activity. The rest of the time I practically get bed sores from lying on the sofa. My dog-walking friends, meanwhile, seamlessly incorporate exercise into their daily lives – and don’t expect a medal for doing it.

The answer isn’t to stop exercising (and actually I don’t want to). I just need to embrace exercise as part of a daily routine, whether it’s a gym session or using my legs instead of my car (walking’s probably quicker than my old Corsa anyway).

And I need to quit thinking I can exercise then eat with abandon and a side order of fries. It’s not about obsessively counting calories or having an anxiety attack every time I put food to my lips. But I’ve got to get out of the habit of using food as a reward when I’ve been to the gym. And miscalculating just how much I’m eating when I have (it’s high time I figured out that 10 minutes on the treadmill doesn’t equal a chicken korma).

And I’ve got to start thinking about poaching those eggs.

OLD ENOUGH TO KNOW BETTER

Are you on a diet? Are you over 28? Well stop right now!

You’re wasting your time, apparently.

A new survey has concluded that 28 is the optimum age to diet. It seems when you’re coming up to your thirties, you’ve got the time and determination to keep on top of your weight.  From 29 onwards, it’s all downhill. Your willpower’s shot to bits. You’re too busy to bother. Basically, you can’t be arsed.

Well that’s unhelpful. And ridiculous. And as well as being ridiculously unhelpful, it’s obviously not true.

Well, the 3,000 thirty-something women who were surveyed believe it. As do the people at Lambrini Light who commissioned the survey. Personally I couldn’t see the link between cars and calories until I realised it wasn’t Lamborghini at all. Silly me. Labrini Light is a low-cal lightly sparkling perry, whatever that is, aimed at, yes, you’ve guessed it, younger women. Or, as it’s marketed on one website ‘Lambrini is all about a celebration of being female, carefree, and up for some fun.’ And presumably up for some post-kebab calorie restricting.

Am I the only one who’s infuriated by food and drinks companies that push their products with a dieting message? Or commission surveys that blatantly link to their target audience.

Hovis is another recent offender. Their research found the average woman will scoff 1,092 unhealthy snacks over the coming year, with nearly half of those surveyed blaming mid-morning hunger pangs for their snack attacks. Cue Hovis’s ‘Stop Snacking’ campaign to get the nation filling up on bread for breakfast. Now there’s nowt wrong with a couple of toasted wholemeal slices – in fact fibre’s all good – but I don’t want it shoved down my throat as a diet option. (If you do, and want to be rewarded with hard cash for your troubles, check out http://www.facebook.com/hovisbakery)

Whether you’re 28 or 58, forget the dieting. The most effective way I’ve found to lose weight is to get off my lardy arse and move. Preferably away from the fridge and onto the gym or the badminton court or the salsa club. And if you’re bored of your spinning class? ’appen you could try cycling oop’t a cobbled hill instead. Loaf of Hovis optional.

ENOUGH IS ENOUGH

Enough is enough. Not something I’m used to saying when it comes to food, to be honest. With food, enough is never enough. And there lies the problem. I can be achingly, painfully, stomach-burstingly full but I just… won’t… stop.

Years ago I remember having dinner with a friend. A fork full of pasta hovered close to my lips. ‘God I’m full,’ I groaned, surreptitiously loosening my skirt. Then I stuffed the spaghetti down my gullet. My how we laughed at my greed! But, really, it wasn’t funny.

It’s sometimes hard to admit you’ve got a problem when nobody twigs that something’s amiss. In fact, for years I’ve felt like a fraud because no one believes I have food issues. ‘But you don’t have an eating disorder,’ wail friends when I try to explain my erratic eating. ‘And it’s not like you’re obese,’ they add, their eyes trained on my thunder thighs. And no, thankfully I’m not anorexic, bulimic or morbidly fat, but I bet they don’t eat cold mashed potato at midnight when their dinner guests are gone and there’s no-one watching and they really don’t know why they’re doing it.

I recently got into an argument over a chocolate cake. My friend Kathy (that’s obviously not her real name… her real name is Julie) had just come from her friend’s birthday party where one of the women had refused to have a slice because she couldn’t trust herself not to scoff the whole lot. Kathy was up in arms. She thought it was downright rude and anti-social not to join in the celebrations with a Sara Lee. I backed her friend and we got into a bit of a barney. It could have gone on for hours but Kathy broke out some blueberry muffins and I gave up (or gave in).

Point is, if you’re not an emotional/compulsive/binge/disordered eater – I like to think of myself as a disorganised eater – then you’re never going to understand the problem. Because you’re never going to think there is a problem.

But I understand. And I’m tired of it. Tired of not understanding where it comes from and why I do it. Tired of feeling a failure and a freak. Tired of it dragging me down. So tired, in fact, that I’m finally doing something about it.

Last week, I signed up for some sessions of hypnotherapy, NLP and EFT – and whatever else the two lovely food-fighters I’ll be seeing can throw at me. They’re going to tackle my problem from all sides – delving into my childhood for clues and giving me practical exercises to do at home. I’ll report back on how it goes. And I sure hope it goes well. It’s time to get sorted. I need to get in touch with what’s going on and exorcise the demons (and cream buns and chocolate bars and mashed potato).

Like I said, enough is enough.

EATS, PUKES AND LEAVES

This is going to be a pathetically – or maybe mercifully, depending on whether you’re a fan of my writing – short blog. To be honest, I’m only really writing it because I liked the title. It is, of course, an homage to Lynne Truss, who rather cleverly wrote an entire book off the back of the title Eats, Shoots & Leaves. I, not so cleverly, haven’t.

Still, it’s passing a few minutes. A few minutes when I could potentially be eating. A few minutes, in fact, when I most definitely would be eating. You see, it’s that afternoon ‘need-a-sugar-snack’ kind of time and usually I’d be well into a family-size bag of Maltesers by now. Instead, I’m writing this. Oh yeah, I hear you cry, how do we know that’s true? Surely you’ve got your podgy little fingers in the fridge right now. Well actually, no, I haven’t. Actually, I have rather brilliantly used blogging as a way of distracting myself from food. Experts recommend distraction techniques to give yourself time to realise that you’re not really hungry and therefore have no need to eat. Distraction techniques like painting your nails – no good to me, of course, as I’ve already eaten them.

My sugar craving has now passed. I honestly think I might now be able to make it to dinner without snacking. By God, this blogging business is actually working. I’ve distracted myself and managed to step away from the food.

So, next time: Eats, burps and leaves.

Or perhaps: Eats, farts and leaves.

Or maybe just leaves.

FOOD, GLORIOUS FOOD

Last night I couldn’t sleep. One reason for this was the mice, who moved in a couple of days ago and seem to have taken up permanent residence in my bathroom. The second, more pressing reason, was the big black question mark that regularly leaves me in an insomnia-coated sweat. Why?

Why can’t I be at peace with food? Why do I stuff my face when I’m full? Why does a trip down the biscuit aisle feel like a day out in Beirut? Why do I eat when I’m happy, sad and every emotion in between? Why can’t I control my eating? And why the hell doesn’t the government ban all-you-can-eat buffets?

That’s a bucket load of questions. And what’s keeping me awake at night – apart from the mice – is the realisation that I don’t have any of the answers. Not a clue. No idea. Not a sausage (pork with caramelised onion, please).

To clarify, this isn’t about weight. Well, alright, it sort of is. If size didn’t matter to me, I’d be chowing down on cheesecake even as firefighters tried to winch me out of my food-encrusted bed. I’m no skinny minny but nor am I morbidly obese. I’m an average-sized woman (I think) with the usual bingo wings/muffin top hang-ups that need regular attention at the gym. Yes, I do try to maintain a certain weight but this isn’t about being fat or thin. It’s about food ruling my life. And wanting it to stop.

I wish the blooming mice would stop. So far, they’ve got through half a kitchen scourer, a lavender-scented duvet holder and a fair-sized chunk of the lounge carpet. This morning I checked the bait and there were bite marks in the plastic tray. I wonder if the mice are actually enjoying their meals or just grabbing whatever they can get (like being faced with a plate of Scotch eggs and knowing you’re going to hate yourself in the morning). By the way, if you’re now expecting me to regale you with some well-researched facts about the feeding habits of mice, I’m afraid you’re going to be sadly disappointed. It’s my feeding habits I need to get a handle on.

And that’s exactly what I’m going to do. My mission is to stop eating and start thinking – though not necessarily in that order. I’m going to think about when I eat, what I eat, how I eat, why I eat. I’m going to ask experts and fellow foodsters. I’m going to throw out my food issues to the universe and pray for feedback (see what I did there?) That’s it, I’ve decided. I’m going to ask questions and, dammit, I’m going to get answers.

I know that food can’t hurt me – actually, that’s a lie, I was knocked out by a pork chop once, which I’ll tell you about another time – but I’m desperate to be released from its greasy hold on me. I want to look food in the eye and say, “Yeah, sure, maybe later.” I want to look down the barrel of the biscuit tin and not be afraid. I want to sleep without counting éclairs. And most of all, right now, I want those bloody mice to leave!