Anorexia

                      

Lying in bed this morning, listening to Classic FM, I mused and reflected on last night's dream. God, it was marvellous! There I was, surrounded by my favourite stars: Dolly Parton, Fern Britton, Nigella Lawson; all the Usual Suspects.

They were feeding me smoked salmon, fresh asparagus, lightly poached eggs with a sprinkle of white truffle, followed by succulent steak, golden crispy chips cooked in dripping, smothered with glistening, sweet, rich, spicy Tiptree Tomato Ketchup.

 

From time to time, they would proffer a smooth, lithe limb glistening with Greek honey, to be licked off...slowly. Then came the dark sweet cherries, fresh-picked raspberries, and the ultimate ice cream from far-off Finland, wrought by virgins of inestimable beauty...then I woke up. Darn!

 

Now I'm tucking into a proper breakfast. Great mounds of crispy smoked bacon, sweet and golden eggs plucked still warm from under fat hens at cockcrow, rich red baubles--the finest San Marzano tomatoes, great garlands of voluptuous brown sausages weeping tears of delicious fat and singing faintly from the hot grill. Back pudding, full of darkness and flavour, soft oatcakes, folded and filled with comfort and joy. Fresh mushrooms, with deep and earthy taste, and glorious hash browns with all the rich and golden nurturing comfort for which the potato is renowned and worshipped... 

 

Soon it will be lunchtime, and I can hardly contain my glee as I wipe the last gleaming dribbles of bacon fat from the shining clean plate. Ohhhh, lunch! Deep joy awaits! Bring it on, I'm ready. 

 

What shall I have? Perhaps fish and chips today, as I'm on a diet. A thick slab of silky white haddock fillet, squeaky-fresh, battered in a crispy jacket of golden bubbles, with twice-cooked chips as thick as your finger and sweet and soft inside as a maiden's kiss. Mushy peas, a sturdy scoop of green goodness, wreathed in vinegar and salt, a soft counterpoint to the crispy batter, and served piping hot in a very large bowl. (Mustn't forget the slice of sunny Sicilian lemon, one of my 'five a day'). Ha! None of your namby-pamby 'nouvelle cuisine' nano-molecular mingy morsels here, thank you!

 

Of course, the national dish must come with great slices of warm, fresh baked yeasty white bread, slathered with fat chunks of rich yellow butter, dribbling juicily down your chin as you sink your teeth into the glory of a hot chip butty! It seems ages already since I finished breakfast, and I'm all agog wondering what I might have for pudding to fill me up a bit after the fish and chips. I'm famished, and feeling faint for lack of nourishment!

 

There is only one candidate today - bread and butter pudding, spiced, filled with bounteous fruit: raisins, currants, sultanas, cherries, milky, silky soft and bursting with eggy goodness, served with real custard fragrant with vanilla.

 

I'm feeling a little fraught, actually. I have a 'condition' you see, and it causes me no end of anxiety, as it can be really serious. It's anorexia. Yes, anorexia. It's all to do with an unhealthy view of food, and a distorted perception of ones body. You just don't see yourself the way others see you. I know I'm anorexic, because every time I look in the mirror I see a fat person! 

 

 

 

 

Mike Biggs, 01 July 2014