So my organic people sent me wild rocket, which I'm having for lunch with za'atar and humous and it's fab. Last night I went to Carluccios in town and had the most glorious pasta and foccaia. Since I've been going easy on the carbs (Stephen Pollard, eat your heart out), it's just a real treat. I feel healthier. And I feel more like those high-maintenance women you see at restaurants in Notting Hill who have the whole meal on the side, which can only be a good thing. Me being like that, I mean. I mean, it's good to be high maintenance, isn't it?
Omigod I've turned into one of those self-obsessed girlies who weigh six stone and talk non-stop about what they have, haven't and might eat. Except without weighing six stone. When I was in the sandwich business (and I know what you're thinking, wasn't she also a headhunter, and some sort of marketing person, and a conference thingie, and research.... it's all true. Until I was freelance I was the sort of person who tried a lot of different things, career-wise, and now I can do that all the time, so it's cool), there were a lot of girls.
We'd deliver to the kind of media-ish, PR-style west end offices that have brightly coloured reception areas and receptionists with directional haircuts, slightly nasal accents and a boyfriend who's a DJ.
What used to get me, was, you'd go round, and all these beautiful, slim, gorgeous, glossy-haired girls would look longingly at the sandwiches, and say "well, I had half a digestive yesterday, and an apple the day before, so I don't think I can have anything." Torturing themselves with the idea of food, but not actually eating. You could see the mix of desperation and self-control as they ran off to their sixth aerobics class of the week. They wanted to enjoy the sensual pleasures of just food, but they couldn't. That, I don't get. And it's a lot of girls, really.
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