In your face, Chicken Cottage

I've walked past my local fried chicken emporium about nine times this weekend, and not even felt vaguely tempted to go in. Suddenly, all I can smell in its vicinity is grease and general yeuch.

This weekend I've done amazing things. I've eaten five pieces of fruit, several rice cakes, some tasty veggie food in Covent Garden, some lovely bioyoghurt and a HUGE mixed salad that I remarkably made myself (a first - I know, I am so bad). I felt so clear-headed this afternoon that I even cleaned the bathroom! I don't know what's wrong with me.

In fairness, I have been cheating a bit. I've thought about cigarettes about 2437 times in the last two days, but apart from the "waiting for a bus" fag, I haven't really put myself in my classic smoking situations. I didn't go out last night, and although I popped to the pub this afternoon, I managed to avoid beer (and thus fags) by pleading detox. Yes, I know I said I wouldn't tell anyone, but these weren't people I was ever going to meet again (long story).

Do I really feel full now? Well, oddly, yes I do. A bowl of soup and some squash, and a banana and a nectarine, and all's good. No meat, no wheat, no shit, no nonsense.

Well, a bit of nonsense.