PANIC ATTACKS AND EATING YOUR OWN FAT

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'Diet day six- what will-power, thank-you the Paralympics! Shall I become a born-again fatist- not on your life: eat yourself to death you greedy lardy bastards, its no business of mine. LOL' CM

'I am just about to start writing having prevaricated for most of the morning- that and chewing the fat of whether or not to cut this or that. Yes, I'm rambling. Which reminds me- there are blackberries in the hedgerows now- food for free and a spot of exercise thrown in. If only we were still hunter gatherers in the true sense- you might have something to moan about then. Bringing home the bacon would mean something significant- like death to a wild boar and none of us would be fat: and there would be no fat cats in the food industry.' CM

'Diet day seven- not exactly food heaven. Food- there's such an emotional element to it: when you feel shit you reach for a sugar rush- a Mars Bar say; well just you think about it, they look like shit AND on my diet I've got to believe they taste like it. No emotional food gratification for me. Just have to return to sins of the flesh, at least it burns calories and doesn't add any so long as I don't swallow. Yay!' CM

'Diet day eight. Fatless and sugarless regime, actually feeling great after a 'cold turkey' kind of week, withdrawal symptoms aside. I shall soon start feeling smug. I am shortly off to the phlebotomist- a posh name for someone who is not even a nurse, who takes blood samples from you on behalf of ones doctor who apparently no longer has the time to perform this function.' CM

'I have had an epiphany about fat. But I positively refuse to evangelize about it. I loathe the church of health per se. LOL. And hate being preached at by Sri Lankan Diebetic specialists with 14inch waists- they are genetically thin and somewhat smug. I desperately want to believe in reincarnation and karma in the vain hope that they will have to see things differently when they are born again as michelin tyre men. LOL.' CM

'Guildford did for me yesterday- I barely survived. Well, I don't do shopping trips and this gilded hell-hole has become, via all known transport links, an important London suburb.
Ghastly describes it in a word. Avid plastic flexers would say superb because it has become a cathedral to capitalist excess and every last vestige of humane compassion has been wrung out of it.
Once a plumb in the frui

t basket of orchard Tory England it is now a hotbed of wealthy multi-culturalism where Sushi bars co-exist alongside Burkhas hiding the Chanel clothing that lurks beneath.
I had a full blown panic attack. Good grief. Life as I know it is truly fucked by greed dressed up as progress and ego-passion. And there is no going back EXCEPT post a holocaust type destructive nuclear attack. Perhaps.
I doubt very much if even that will teach us the necessary lessons. History- ancient history certainly says not. We seem to be very good at repeating the same mistakes.
I do. I keep venturing into places I am quite allergic too and I pay the price by my own psychic defences sending sudden surges of chemicals through my body. I feel twice as heavy, leaden, have difficulty breathing; searing pains in hips and ankles and elbows. It disables me. Everything about me is telling me to get the fuck out of there.
Now- the morning after. I am just about over it.
Yes. I choose reclusivity as a means of survival. Lucky me that I am able to. Where I live, in some deeply appreciated peace, the pollution levels from both traffic and people are minimal.
It is diet day nine. I shall be fine. Eating my own fat.' CM