Vanora Leigh

There are no pretty words or phrases, you see, to disguise what I did. I stole a piece of sausage from the dog's dish.

Why? You think I went crazy? Well, you're not too far wrong. I was actually driven mad with hunger, that's why. Because I've been living on a diet of sunflower seeds, chopped cabbage and strong green tea, that's why.

It would never have happened if I didn't read so much, if I'd stuck to watching TV and listening to my CDs. Then I wouldn't have read the magazine article about detoxifying your body in time for Easter (presumably so you can stuff it again with chocolate bunnies and eggs filled with Smarties).

There was a hit list of foods to chuck - anything containing sugar or animal fat (sausages were particularly villainous), dairy products, spices, drinks such as coffee containing caffeine.

So, what was left? Not much, not much at all. Not much that wasn't green anyway. Green was good. Unfortunately.

Have you ever realised how boring green things are, especially when you can't add and salt or pepper?

There is actually a limit to how much chopped cabbage/broccoli/spinach you can eat before you start hallucinating - before you start seeing brown and gold and yellow things, things that are called chocolate, and chips and custard tarts.

You'll discover you can't stop thinking about food, proper food, food that drips and dribbles down your chin, food that leaves a delightfully jammy residue round your mouth, food that makes you glad to be alive.

Instead, you'll be nibbling your fingernails and virtuously steaming your greens - as I was yesterday lunchtime. I was drooling at the prospect of a nice semi-cooked half cauliflower when someone came to the door.

Praying it might be a pizza delivery man sent to the wrong address - "oh, not to worry, I'll take it off your hands, save you the trouble of returning it" - I answered the persistent knocking.

It was a man come to read the gas meter. "I think you've got something burning," he said just before he left.

It was the saucepan of steamed cauliflower. That did it - I'd had enough. I set off for The Mother's house.

There were sausages frying when I arrived. I recognised them at once.

They were the bad guys I'd donated to her shopping bag when I'd been detoxifying my fridge. They were being fried with onions and The Mother had made my favourite mashed potato with butter.

It was torture, but I was determined not to weaken, not to give in to temptation, not to mutter: "My, that looks good, I think I'll join you."

I had a glass of water (no caffeine, remember?) instead.

Then I looked down. I was standing in the kitchen and in a corner was the dog's dish. The Mother had sliced a couple of sausages and put them in it.

I looked round. The dog was in the back garden, The Mother had vanished. I bent down and quickly picked up a piece of sausage and popped it in my mouth.

"That," said The Mother, standing in the doorway, "is the most disgusting thing I've ever seen you do."

So, wretched and hungry, I went home and did something even more disgusting.

I ate her Easter egg.

Converted for the new archive on 30 June 2000. Some images and formatting may have been lost in the conversion.