Sitting here, slurping my liquid lunch (of the soup variety) I wonder, could UK eating habits be considered mildly schizophrenic? With Santa duties and gorging out the way, we Brits need a new goal it would seem. Cue: Beach booty / Alcohol is the enemy / My body is a temple and nothing but raw veggies hand picked by virgin nuns will pass my lips.

We women (and I apologise in advance for the red rag to a bull sweeping generalisation) are largely programed to derive more than a healthy dose of sense of self from our appearance and percentage body fat. I don’t do diets, yet I’m off solids in a desperate attempt to shed Mince Pie Top. I split my leggings at Christmas. Case rests. On confessing my cognitive disposition, several male friends bravely admitted to feeling my pain, so it’s no longer just us dollies, sadly.

Writing this blog and working in food, I’m often asked for the wholesomely seductive Holy Grail. For me, food is one of life’s greatest pleasures. I pick holiday destinations and social events based almost entirely on the street eats I’ll sample and later adapt at home.

It’s common knowledge that yo-yo dieting does not, in the long term, a slimmer figure make. A zero fat / carb / dairy diet would leave me bereft of joy, not to mention unemployed. And surely abstinence just makes the heart grow fonder, right? However, I also derive a significant amount of happiness from feeling fit and healthy, and squeezing into jeans that would be snug on a fifteen year old ballerina.

As this blog extols, food is fuel; it should not only taste good but do us good. Throughout January and February, I’ll blog my tips for living your life; employing a modicum of consciousness into your daily nourishment; and opting out of chronic and tortuous calorie counting along the way.

I guarantee you’ll feel healthier, have more energy and, should you so desire, lose weight in the process. Unless, unlike me, you’ve somehow seen the light and don’t subscribe to our skinny = success cultural diktat.