Hello, this is me.

Well, some of me, anyway.


I see you…

People keep telling me that I haven’t changed, but oh I have.

The lines are deeper, the hair is definitely silver underneath the dye – because I’m not ready yet to let it grow out gracefully – but the ‘tache is becoming lighter as more of it goes white.

Those lines though. The crescent around the corners of my mouth, the lines running from nose to the edges of my lips, the deeper shadows surrounding the eye socket, none of those were there before and yet here they are, staring back at me in the mirror every day.

To me, they are not things to hide. Even though I might have a moment of “Oh ffs, concealer maybe?” once in a while, it’s not really that much of a bother because that’s my face. It’s not just a collection of lines and pores and sparse brows and random hairs, it’s the picture I present to the world.

That picture has a life lived imprinted on it. Those crescents are smile lines, and to see them get deeper means, to me, that I have smiled and laughed a lot in my life. They are just going to have to get deeper, then, as I want to continue to smile, continue to laugh, and hang the skin related consequences. There have been times when it’s been extremely difficult to smile, but then I remember that I can smile at a person, and though it’s a brief or fleeting moment for me, a kind look can mean the world to another.

I am aware that my genes are to blame for almost everything that happens to my body, inside and out. I have other marks and scars, all reminders of things that happened.

I am grateful that my genes have given me mostly good skin, and a fairly good bone structure that’s under there somewhere. I’ve never been so desperate to see my cheekbones that I’d stop eating cheese, good butter and olive oil because of it, I admit.

My lived experience canvas hangs on the outside of a framework that has withstood a fair amount of battering. For someone who’s had a life threatening illness as a child, been in 3 motorbike accidents, had various tumbles on ice, a slipped disc and jarred hips that won’t quit reminding me they are there,  and plus hauled the MonSter (Relapsing Remitting MS) around since 1996, I think I’m doing very well indeed.

That isn’t because I am, or have done, anything special, or because I’ve lived a good life – though I really have – or a Christian life – ha ha ha – it’s just the luck of the draw. That’s all it is for anyone. We are what we are.

I do joke when people say I don’t look my age (47) that it’s all the olive oil I eat. Maybe it is.

I will never deny myself the feeling of warm sun on my skin, or the blast of the wind in my hair for fear of lines. I can’t imagine hiding away from the sun’s rays, but I am lucky that I have an olive skinned heritage. I don’t overdo it, because who wants sunburn, but I do sit in it when I can to soak it up and boost that vitamin D.

An avocado. Now. That is for eating, not schmearing on your face. I don’t eat them often, but when I do, olive oil and sea salt is the way that I go. I’m always far too grateful to have found a ripe one to even think about splotting some onto my wrinkles. My wrinkles might even love it, but they aren’t going to get the chance to find out. My lines are there for myriad reasons. An avocado is for lunch, my face is for smiling and laughing.

So here I am. This is me. I’m not going to hide the marks that life has left on me just because ‘beauty’ magazines and ‘society’ thinks I should.

Here’s to growing old, to collecting more lines, more experiences, more smiles.

Here’s to living.

Here’s to LIFE.


You might be happy, but are you WELL?

Personally, yes, I am well. Ok, so I have a chronic illness, that periodically makes my life a misery, but even in those times, and in-between those times, I am – mostly – well and happy and content.

I am perfectly happy with how I look, despite The Media yelling at me all the time that how I look is somehow wrong. (There is no wrong way to have a body. Just saying.)

I enjoy my food, and I am comfortable in that joy. In fact, I relish that joy of cooking and eating.

Wellness for me is not the elimination of everything you hold dear with no sound medical reason, because someone else has tagged it ‘unclean’. That doesn’t lead to wellness, it leads to fear, and paranoia, self denial and almost self flagellation. It also seems to lead to an awful lot of expense. The wellness and clean eating trend seems to mean a totally clean wallet, mainly. The Medjool date sellers and Sainsbury’s must be in heaven.

I am very well aware of how my body works, and what it needs to nourish itself.

Now. Read that again. “I am very well aware of how my body works, and what it needs to nourish itself.”

MY body, not yours. Or anyone else’s. What works for me (and I do NOT mean what makes me lose weight, in case anyone asks) may very well not work for anyone else at all on this planet.

We are legion, and because we are legion, there are as many body types, and health types as there are teeming billions on this tiny blue pearl of ours coasting through space.

Wellness, to me, doesn’t mean restriction to the point of madness. It certainly doesn’t mean designating a foodstuff ‘evil’ just because YOU have a reaction to it.

For example, if I take tetracycline antibiotic, it kills my white blood cells. We learned this through a nearly fatal experience when I was 6 or 7, but I am certainly not going to go around telling everyone I meet that they should never take it and that it will kill them. There is not, and never will be, a one size fits all when it comes to food and eating, and nor should there be. We are not living in Airstrip One. Yet.

Thane Prince made a very good comment the other night at our cookbook club, in that the current fads are now decrying what used to be our ‘wellness’ foods back in the day.

Good, wholemeal homemade bread has now become evil incarnate. It’s a great shame. One of the most simple, basic foods there has ever been, a food which has sustained millions, banished by people who think the world needs to be spoken to like they all have an illness or an allergy.  I am not in favour of the Chorleywood technique, as that has caused its own problems, despite it being a very useful tool when it was needed but the pure pleasure in eating well made bread, with cool butter, is one that should not be ignored.

Bread – 4 or so ingredients, butter 2 ingredients. Together they bring joy. (I am, however, extremely glad that a gluten free bakery in London has managed to provide my GF friends with the same joy. Restriction through necessity is not fun.)


Projecting your own food fears and obsessions out into the world can be dangerous, but it is also highly profitable. Our £60 BILLION diet industry is proof of that. It plays on our fears, and our insecurities. Ruby Tandoh has a rather brilliant post here on the subject. I am extremely glad that she is using her media position to speak out.

Life will be better IF we are more slim, just that bit more slim, and then a bit more.

WHEN you lose the weight, you can do [swimming/cycling/play with your kids]

This is all just another Cambridge Diet, or F Plan, or Slim Fast or Grapefruit Diet or Lighter Life in another guise.

Cycle, play with your kids, swim, walk, dance when nobody’s looking, dance when somebody IS looking. It’s YOUR body. Nobody else owns it.

I wish that people were able to genuinely love themselves for who and what they are.

Life doesn’t begin when you lose weight. It’s only you that is stopping yourself from doing all those fabulous things. Yes, I did lose a lot of weight a long time ago, through severe restriction. NOTHING CHANGED. I was still me, and what I discovered was that am not a bad thing to be.

I’ll go on the beach, or by the pool, in a swimsuit and hang the critics. Why? Because it’s my body, and it’s my life, and people do not dictate to me.

You are under no obligation to look at me. But you can if you want.

Run with the Moon
Sent to me by my friend Becca, as it reminded her of me. I am deeply honoured.

This courgette* has no morals!


I just read this rather excellent piece by Eva Wiseman.


I have to say, I agree with pretty much all of it. It’s nothing that hasn’t been said recently, but it absolutely bears repeating, often. Gizzi Erskine came out against the clean eating fad a while back, expressing concerns – rightly so – about the negative effect the Cult of Clean has on people’s attitudes to food and body size, not to mention the moralisation of foods. Clean foods, dirty foods et al. They’re just FOOD, not a bible class.

A marvellous rant on Twitter by Poots attracted the interest of Jay Rayner and Tim Hayward, thereby ensuring that it went viral. People said “Oh but it’s been said before.” and yes, it has but it needs to be heard again and again.

The demonisation of sugar, of gluten, of dairy – yes Lorraine Pascale I’m looking askance at you and your proclaimed avoidance which is rich for someone whose shows about baking made you famous – has people who aren’t food aware running in ever decreasing circles as they cut out one thing after another. (There’s also something very uncomfortable for me about people who have access to huge amounts of food cutting out whole swathes of it needlessly when some people have access to almost none.)

STOP IT. YOU DO NOT NEED TO DO THAT. (disclaimer: if you have an actual allergy, or an actual intolerance, then of course, you need to do that. This isn’t about you.)

People like Ella write as though all their readers suffer from a food allergy/food related illness. Most people don’t, so stop making people eat like they do. Her own illness getting better by changing her diet is a good thing for her. However, that doesn’t automatically mean she has authority or the knowledge to teach others how to eat. What works for her may not work for others. Hooray for her, she’s healthy again, but health and diet are so subjective that any attempt to blanket diagnose is sheer idiocy. I feel better in myself when I don’t eat white bread or white pasta, but that’s personal to me, and I’m not going to push that on anyone else, because nobody else has my genetics, body or physical make up. If my friend Pete ate my diet – fibre rich – it would, quite literally, kill him.

Gluten is only bad for those people who are allergic, intolerant to it or are Coeliac. Coeliac disease isn’t an allergy or an intolerance, it is actually an auto-immune condition but gluten can make it a life-threatening illness.

If you aren’t one of those people, then yay you! Go eat a bacon sandwich, hoist high a baguette, chew on a croissant and celebrate your freedom. Please do not say things like “I ate a whole baguette and then I was bloated! I must be allergic!” because that’s daft. You aren’t, you just ate A WHOLE BAGUETTE.

If you have a real allergy, you will absolutely know about it. Feeling full and a bit uncomfortable after eating too much bread or pasta doesn’t count. Go take a TUMS, and have a lie down.

I could bang on about this kind of thing for ages, but my opinion doesn’t count. No, really, it doesn’t.


Because I don’t look like this.


I look like this:


and an overweight person’s views on proper healthy eating are never going to be taken seriously because the underlying response, though never spoken out loud unless that person is particularly asinine, will always be “But you’re fat, so surely you can’t be healthy.”

Never mind the facts, which are that my blood pressure, cholesterol levels and overall health is excellent despite having a chronic illness, let’s just look at shape.

I come from a long line of round and fluffy people. I am never going to not be round and fluffy. I am totally fine with that. The only thing you can tell from my body size, is what I look like.

As for my diet, I know what to eat – FOR ME. Same as Ella knows what to eat FOR HER. Most people know and will admit if pressed that crisps and highly processed snack foods are treats, not staples. At least, I hope they do. Pringles aren’t one of the four main food groups, Twinkies aren’t even a food.

I know how my body works, and how it reacts to foods. I am acutely aware of those things. I certainly do not need some trust fund baby pushing squidged dates and chia seeds at me in order to make me into some semblance of what society deems normal just because it made her feel better. Nor will I benefit from reading books or instagram feeds about glowing, unless they are written by people with actual, bonafide certifications (get in the sea McKeith), medical training and years of experience.

I will also add that if you are a convert to the school of GAPS diets, take yourself away from me now. Far, far away. http://angry-chef.com/blog/want-to-see-something-really-scary

I wonder if what this fervour for eliminating everything we enjoy, what it all boils down to, right at the end, tucked away and going unacknowledged in that hidden room that nobody talks about, is the totally illogical quest for eternal life. Or at least the prolonging of this one. Putting off the swish of the scythe for as long as possible, by dint of quinoa and brain dust.

Well my lovelies, it isn’t going to work.

If life has taught me anything, it’s that the Man in Black will turn up as and when he will.

If only it was the skeleton in a robe riding Binky, who loves cats and music with rocks in, coming to take us to the afterlife we think we deserve, but it isn’t.

It’s stealthy, and sneaky, and mostly grabs you when you aren’t expecting it, no matter how much kale you eat.

So eat your greens, enjoy your cakes, have that bit of sugar every so often if you want, tootle about in the fresh air when you can, glory in the seconds as they pass – and do your best not to fall off a mountain because you don’t want your last words to be remembered as “Oh bugger.”



There’s been enough grief and introspection on here to last me a while, lately. It’s eased, thankfully, but it’s still there, I’m just trying extremely hard not to think about it.

During that raw period of the first few Bowieless weeks, a little book dropped into my Kindle. One I had been looking forward so much that I’d pre-ordered it some time back.

The author, bless his heart, had unwittingly composed a tribute to our Mr Jones.

Written long before the news of his death came out, and with a release date that was also a coincidence, people catcalled, but they were wrong.

It was beautiful. And something that I think the man himself would have adored. (Read the book, you’ll know what I mean. No, really, do go read.)

Once I’d pulled myself together after the first few pages, I read with unseemly haste. I tend to do that, and then when I get to the end I go right back to the beginning again so that the words can be savoured and ingested even more fully.

I sped through, until I got to the part about wedding cake. Then I stopped short, and had to backtrack and read again.

I won’t say what the cake actually was, but after reading about it, then finishing the book, I realised a few days later that I had a craving for something.

I’ve found this happened after reading Joanne Harris’s Chocolat, too, and the subsequent books with Vianne.

It’s a bit of a problem. To explain, my name on Twitter is Wordtasting for a reason. I have a peculiar to me brand of synaesthesia. Many words have an associated food, or mouthfeel, or even a taste. So yes, Wordtasting is a thing that happens to me. It can get a little distracting if I let it, especially when others join in and start playing “What does this word taste of then?” with me.

These lovely authors’ use of language, and the descriptions of their foodstuffs are so incredibly good, that they awake both the very best of my imagination, and the synaesthesia sensations. It really is a double whammy when I read their pages. This isn’t technically a problem, until I try and sate the craving that started on, say, page 75.

I can’t. I just can’t.

Nothing in this physical world can match up to what I tasted in the cerebral one.

Ever since reading Chocolat, I think I have been subconsciously searching for those chocolates, those rich, smooth flavours that have such depth, such dark velvet hints and swirls of scent to them. I haven’t found any yet. Oh don’t get me wrong, I am very lucky in that I have been able to taste some extremely fine chocolates of late, but they just aren’t what my brain is looking for. Nothing I’ve eaten has hit the right spot. One almost did…almost…and at New Year I made myself a celebration hot chocolate with nothing in it but double cream, fine dark chocolate and apricot brandy. That at least sorted out the craving for hot chocolate! Thank heaven for that though never, ever will I drink another hot chocolate from the machine at work. It’s very good, but it’s not that.

I have resigned myself to the fact that the eating chocolate part is just not going to get resolved.

Thanks to Mr Wallace, now it’s moved on to include cake.

I am a member of the Cake Club at work, and oh my goodness there have been some amazing creations but none of them came close. One chap in our IT department brought in handmade cupcakes from Claridges. Would one of these be It?

If I’m honest, no. In fact, those came even further away from the tastes and textures I had held in my brain than our Cake Club offerings. It was a bit of a disappointment.

I suspect I am going to have to make my own, but oh my, I need to up my skills with sugar and flour and eggs.

I’ll be sure to report back if I find The One. Or the Two.

In the meantime, please do me a favour, and neither of you write about in detail about steak.


(vegan cupcake courtesy of Jane Barnett.)