In January, like every “New Year, New You” cliché in the book, I started a diet. In the time-honoured tradition immortalised by Bridget Jones and her famous red diary, I stripped off, creaked myself onto the scales, winced at the result, and diligently recorded the numbers in a freshly downloaded weight-loss app.
Keen to finally take my health seriously after a lifetime of alternating between carb-binging and pecking at spartan diet “snacks” that barely resembled food, I fully committed to the plan. My kitchen cupboards were soon stacked with quinoa and chia seeds and “nutritional yeast”, whatever the heck that was; my fridge shelves groaned with cottage cheese and greens and Greek yoghurt. I made every nutritionally balanced meal from scratch, stopped drinking anything other than water and herbal tea, kicked my refined sugar and snacking habits and strove to exercise four times a week. Within a month, I had lost more than a stone, was sleeping like a log and my mental health had never been better.
