The other morning, someone I'm planning on interviewing sent me an email enclosing directions to his office. "The choice," he wrote, "is: exhausting stairs, or death-defying ancient lift." Uh oh. It's the stairs for me. As T pointed out a few moments ago, it's now just six weeks until our summer holiday, at which point I must reveal my – as Grazia would have it – "bikini-ready" body to the world. Oh, Lord. If only the status of "bikini-ready" were as easy to achieve as that of oven-ready, my life would be perfect. I could slip myself out of my (biodegradable) packaging and… ta-dah! Simply baste, on the hour, every hour.
How to lose a little weight swiftly and easily when one is incredibly greedy and almost entirely without self-restraint when it comes to eating and drinking? This is the question on my mind right now. Do I exercise? Yes. I run three times a week. But such activity only makes me more ravenous. In a sweaty tracksuit, I can, and usually will, devour three times the amount of breakfast I normally eat. As for dieting, this is not for me. I despise diet books, which are joyless, dishonest and, being umbilically connected to both vanity and greed, inelegant. Last month, perusing the library of an exceedingly famous cook, my eye fell upon a volume called Eat Fat and Grow Slim, and it was as if a spell had been broken. In an instant, my reverence for this great cook subtly diminished. I did not want to think of her falling for this claptrap. I did not care to discover that she worried about her own thighs when her time might have been more profitably spent stuffing those of some small but delicious bird.
But such a thing as elegant and amusing diet advice does exist, if you know where to look. I refer you to Agnes Jekyll's Kitchen Essays. Jekyll, who died in 1937, was the sister-in-law of the famous gardener Gertrude Jekyll, and famed in social circles for her abilities as hostess. Her Kitchen Essays, which appeared first in the Times, are themed in order to deal with every possible food eventuality – or at least every eventuality for the lady with servants and a country residence. There is an essay on what to serve at a winter shooting party, another on what to eat after a play, and yet another on tray food. All are quite brilliant. We, however, are interested only in essay number XXVI: "For The Too Fat", which resides discreetly between XXV, "For The Too Thin", and XXVII, "Sunday Supper" (yes, such is the book's design, no one need know you have dietary advice in the house).
This essay's scant six pages are so bracing, merely reading them makes you feel a little neater around the middle. First things first. As Jeykll points out, no one likes to be fat: "It is unbecoming, fatiguing and impairs efficiency." To deal with this state, one must follow an austere, but varied diet; tedium is the enemy of those "suffering from avoirdupois". Her suggestions include Consommé à l'Estragon, the whites of a couple of eggs whisked into it at the last moment; Natural Meat Jelly, served on a rusk; and, for a main course, a "fresh or slightly pickled tongue" or perhaps a mixed grill, starring mutton cutlets, or devilled game. For pudding, a black plum is good, especially if soaked in cherry brandy first. Jekyll, you will gather, does not mess around with weights and measures and silly "substitutes". Eat less, and eat tasty, is what she is saying. Something really piquant – a sheep's tongue dressed in a sweet-sour sauce – is more satisfying than some bland "diet" food. I'm not big on tongue, but I get the bit about piquancy. Give me a tiny corner of toast smeared with Gentleman's Relish or Marmite, and I will not feel peckish for, oh, at least an hour.
Jekyll finishes crisply, with one last piece of advice (at this point, you picture her fountain pen scratching over expensive parchment with renewed vigour). "Activities, mental and physical," she writes, "play a large part in reducing weight, just as sloth and inertia promote it, for, in the words of Claudel, 'Bien des choses se consument sur le feu d'un coeur qui brûle.'" No doubt many of you are able to translate this far more elegantly than I. But anyway… What it means is: one can get away with eating all manner of evils – profiteroles! babas au rhum! – if one only jigs around a bit.
And that, I think, is my regime for the next six weeks sorted. Much jigging. Many savoury treats. Come July, I fully expect to have lost, ooh, whole millimetres from my waist.
