After pond water and stickjaw, there’s still a pulse

I’M at the whim of the cooking books sent in to me by publicists.

Along comes one about juicing and I take it home, completely captivated, and spend half a month’s wages on organic vegies that I shove through the juicer and drink for a week.

It’s not a cheap way to eat. Armloads of vegies turn into just a few glasses of juice and I’m backwards and forwards to the shop like a maniac.

I do a day’s washing, chop- ping, juicing, before I drag a bag to work, filled with containers of juices, clanking against each other, brimming with lurid concoctions.

The sight of jam jars of pond water (that would be broccoli, kale and carrots) and jam jars of blood bank donations (beetroot of course, with kale and red pepper and chilli) tends to bother my work pals, so I avoid the main fridge and the tea room and slurp discreetly at my desk.

The following week, there’s another book.

This time it’s all about confectionery.

The juicer is pushed to the back of the cupboard and now it’s time for the kitchen scales to take centre stage for the necessary precision weighing required if you fancy yourself as a Willy Wonka wannabe.

Out comes the sugar thermometer and the heavy-based saucepan and instead of the sparkly crisp summery smell of freshly squeezed juice, it’s the heady, sweet aromas, all warm huggable toffee fragrances of my sugar whim.

The bloke sighs as each fad comes and goes. He bows out from the juice one — he’s a person who likes to chew his dinner — and high fives me on the confectionery whim as he shoves another piece of honeycomb or stickjaw in his mouth.

The next fad is set to be lentils so I expect you’ll see him at the pub, chewing on a solitary counter meal while I continue to take my role as food writer seriously.