Promises, Promises...

I used to loathe breakfast and never used to eat it - except on a Sunday around 11.30am in a cafe up the road. Now, it’s a different story. I only ever miss it on the odd occasion. Do I enjoy it? That would be stretching the truth but I know I’m doing my body such a massive favour having brekkie.

I have a couple of options I throw down the hatch but nine times out of ten it’s a green juice. Not always a “yum" moment on cold winter mornings, especially the trek (few steps) out to the vegie garden in the rain. Also not the prettiest sight first thing for the neighbours - me cluthching my dressing gown up from the sodden grass, mauve, fluffy bottom ( dressing gown again) in the air, hair every which way but the right way, as I pick spinach, kale, sorrel, parsley, dandelion leaves and twist an icy lemon off the tree, shaking raindrops down my once warm, dry arm, on my way back inside.

But, OH, it makes me feel so virtuous. All those leafy greens and lemon juiced up with turmeric root, fresh ginger and a pear or some pineapple. Health heaven.

My insides gurgle with anticipation followed by appreciation and are oblivious to my thoughts of bacon and eggs and toast. No - crumpets. Dripping in butter. Later, much later on.

As I swallow down the last bitter drop along with some omega 3 capsules, I think: “Well done, you. Another step to ongoing health and well-being." Because that’s the promise, isn’t it? In all the books? Radiant skin, toned, slender body, gleaming organs, ecstatic arteries, increased libido, even.

How long have I been doing this?