You’ve lost weight! Have I? Who cares? But you are still ugly!

At the beginning of December each year I take it upon myself to do research into mince pies. Long and painful though the journey may be, someone has to find the pick of the crop so selflessly I systematically work my way through various supermarkets’ basic ranges, as well as their luxury all-butter whiskey-imbued efforts.

Inevitably then onto M&S, for a boozy fruity hit. More often than not, I finally end up plumping for the home-made creations dusted in a little icing sugar and a whole lot of love that come from the farmhouse down the road.

Sadly this year my annual project was brought to a screeching halt by my doctor, who was giving out about my blood pressure and telling me to lose weight.

Doctors are human beings and mine is an excellent bloke who was, on this particular occasion, having a bad day. He made no response when I told him that I’d lost a stone and a half in the last year. He didn’t twitch an eyelash when I pleaded that perhaps December wasn’t the best time to expect me to shed sugar as a way of life.

It’s bad enough when one side of a conversation is having an off day, but sadly I too was feeling rough and ready for bed. For the last three months I’ve been battling a series of infections following a viral bug (yum, have I ever sounded sexier or more attractive?), so my mood was as low as my doctor’s temper threshold.

Struggling to process thought, I unwisely decided to try to think out loud, working out what else I could cut from my diet to help me lose more weight. My list of edibles has shrunk dramatically in the last few years, since I found out that my gut reacts badly to all citrus fruits, apples, onions, garlic and leeks, tomatoes and a host of other lovely things.

I used to fill up on fruit every day (which may have been my undoing in itself!) and miss it more than I can say. Still safe with bananas, pineapple and berries, I find it harder not to snack on bad things, now that most fruit is forbidden.

So there I was in the doctor’s surgery, muttering out loud as I tried to find dodgy fatty sugary snacks that I could cut out of my diet.

“...well, there’s those Cuisine de France maple pecan thingies from the garage, they’re pretty evil, so they can go, and then there’s the mince pies and - ”

At the mention of pastry products my doctor lost his temper.

“What’s that about pies?”

“Oh, that’s my Mince Pie Research Project!” I let slip unadvisedly, “I’ll knock that on the head straight off! Gone. No mincers. None.”

“And what other pies?”

I hadn’t mentioned any other pies, but now felt duty-bound to confess that once or twice a month, me and herself dine on M&S chicken pies, served with three vegetables. Hardly the gastronomic equivalent of a nuclear holocaust, you’d think, but enough that day to tip my doctor over the edge.

For more, read this week’s Galway City Tribune.