Detox til ya don't stop

I'm on a detox. It's a ball-ache. The motivation for ruining my own enjoyment of life for a fortnight is straightforward - the quality of the flesh on my body is below par. My thighs in particular are distressing; the limp, lumpy fat under the pallid, thread-veined skin contorts into some almost admirably sickening shapes if I do anything but stand up straight in a room with no breeze.

If I hadn't found myself unexpectedly single, it wouldn't have occurred to me to banish meat, fish, dairy, salt, sugar, wheat, booze, tea and coffee from my diet, I just thought trying to get around these rules would give me something to do. Also, I hoped, I would emerge from the other end of the experience with a glossy coat, wet nose and thighs like nutcrackers so I could stop feeling judged by airbrushed women on posters. Them and their amazing postery lives, pfft.

My problem isn't that I'm fat, it's that I'm English. Or British, I suppose; the Scots, Irish and Welsh aren't famed for their toned and dusky skin. Fake tan on me looks like Tango vitiligo and smells like wet dogs, besides which, I'm too lazy to smear the stuff on, it's far easier to dye my hair red every other month. Redheads are supposed to be pale. I like to think that if I were tanned, my four arse cheeks would look beguilingly peachy, but - actually, no buts. I'm still totally happy to believe that.

I don't really want to do the detox anymore, what I WANT is a fucking great big scone with cream and jam. That's what's erotic to me at the moment. God, strawberry jam. Interestingly however - well, interesting to me - I have learned that my desperate and unrealistic desire to prance around in hotpants before it's too late is stronger, even, that my lust for a decent feed. Amazing.