Cya, Sugar

Though I've lost a lot of weight in the past year, I told myself this summer would finally be the summer I walk out of the pool glistening like a Davidoff advert and showing off my chiselled 6-pack. The reality was that I looked down and realised I hadn't reached any of my goals for a toned body because I haven't stopped eating crap ...I've just exercised and maintained the same "skinny fat" shape. So whilst struggling with both weight and writers block, I thought like a true artist and decided I should put myself through, and therefore write about, something so challenging, gruelling and demanding on both mind and body that I'm bound to win a Pulitzer. 

I decided to go cold turkey on sugar.  

I know, right. Single-handedly tackling this country's obesity problem. 

Part One: The First 8 Days 

DAY ONE: 

11.14 - I swear to God I feel ill; I know that’s ridiculous and it’s all in my head (and I’ve just got back to work after ten days in Marbella) but I really do feel shaky. 

12.31 - So what the fuck do I have for lunch? 

I’m getting a cold sore. I’m actually getting a fucking cold sore. I haven’t had a cold sore since I was about ten. This is disgusting!  …I wonder if you can rub sugar directly on to a cold sore? 

21.00 Oh wow, just read that sugar travels to your brain on the same path that heroin does. I’m on a heroin withdrawal like Mimi out of Rent. Can just imagine by day four that I’m going to be wandering around the apartment clutching a tea light and singing “Would You Light My Candle?” on the hunt for a Dairy Milk wrapper to suck. 

DAY TWO: 

7.15 - I thought this diet was supposed to aid a better night's sleep. I, on the other hand, have woken up thinking my phone's having an actual joke with the alarm. It cannot be the morning. No. I've only just lay down. 

9.21 -  So the crankiness has set in. It’s like I have no filter! I can't believe this is what two days of sugar withdrawal does to a person.  

12:01 - Seriously, though, what the fuck do I have for lunch? Soup is full of sugar, apparently,  

12:25 - Ooo grilled salmon has only 0.1g of sugar (AND 13G OF FAT?!) 

12:30 - Fuck it I'm having microwaved grilled salmon. But with what? Research into other people who've done this tells me I'm supposed to sprinkle things like "carob beans" on to home caught fish (sorry, let me just get my spear out and go stabbing in the Bridgewater Canal) with a handful of fresh kale. Anyone who genuinely knows what a carob bean is come see me so that we can stop being friends. 

13:30 - in the aisle of The Co-op - WHY DOESN'T ANYWHERE FROZEN MICROWAVABLE GRILLED SALMON?!  

21:00 - I've been shopping but only lasted about two hours. And eating something actually only made my energy levels dip even more because there was no sugar in it. Clearly my personal sugar addiction was much worse than first thought.  

21:30 - I have had to get in to bed. Like I've actually had to because I sat down on it and couldn't get back up again. Surely this is all in my head? Sugar can't physically affect a person this much...can It? 

DAY THREE: 

7.15 - Another morning of waking up to thinking I've only just gone to sleep. When does the "oh my God you wake up feeling completely different" shit start? 

11:50 - Very nearly buckled at the sight of some strawberry pencils at work. I could so easily chow down on a strawberry pencil or four but it's only been three days and I would love, for once in my life, to actually complete a goal (without minor cheats along the way). I have instead opted for a handful of Snackrite pretend Pringles that are actually only <0.1g sugar per 30g! They're full of salt and other shit but give a fuck because I'm not on a diet I'm on a sugar boycott. They are not one in the same.

17.50 - So I've taken a tiny foot off the bandwagon (trust me, I've been known to dive spectacularly off it so this is pretty good) by having barbecue sauce on my meatballs for dinner. To be fair I figured it's probably not that sugar-ific until I researched and found there's, on average, around 10g of sugar in one serving. Shit. 

DAY FOUR: 

12:59 - Whoever the fucker was that thought It's acceptable to bin/steal/move the tin opener in the office kitchen needs to get their fucking head sorted. I've just had to spend 20 minutes of my life using a pair of scissors to stab open a tin of tuna to put on my measly salad. Symptom check: yes, irrational bursts of anger are still very much present. 

DAY FIVE - SEVEN:  

7am-11pm - Abyss. 

7am - 11pm - miserable darkness salvaged, ever so slightly, by vodka and slim line tonic. Lots of Iit. 

7am - 11pm - hangovers are shit with no sugar but I'm starting to feel a bit...normal?! 

DAY EIGHT: 

9:30 - Feeling incredibly smug after walking past a sign for Oreo, Peanut Butter, Banana Nutella and Ferrero Roche milkshakes and not even quivering slightly. Every morning I walk past that sign on the way to work and this is the first time I haven't slowed to a time-lapse pace to deliberate having one as a 'breakfast snack'; James 1, Sugar 0. 

10.56 - Water, water, everywhere and not a drop to drink. Except for the dribble falling on to my keyboard. It's my colleague's 40th birthday and there's a tray of cupcakes, a red velvet cake, a strawberry and white chocolate cake (my favourite) and a shit tonne of Haribo. I can live without the Haribo but fuck me...red velvet cake. COME ON! 

11.00 - I will not eat those cakes. I treated myself to wine at the weekend and glared at the biscuit tin for two days. I will not fall now. I will not eat those cakes. 

11.02 - I could have half a cake. 

11.03 - I will not have half a cake. 

11.10 - I ate one cupcake. I hate me. 

"Tattu, and you?"

It’s a special occasion, you’re sexy twenty-something city dwellers and you want to earn bragging rights on Instagram…where do you go? To a trendy new bar with an ominous name and a website loaded with sophisticatedly dark interior shots, of course.

Though I walk through Spinningfields almost every day of the week I could not for the life of me remember seeing this “new fancy Chinese restaurant” anywhere. Ten minutes after strolling past The Oast House three times, and with Google Maps in hand, I was still none-the-wiser and the bottle of Prosecco we'd downed just before leaving refused to do anything other than add to the fog. Ged (birthday boy, partner in life and crime --->) was just on the edge of deciding that I'd fabricated the entire existence of this place when we spotted two burly bouncers hovering outside what looked like an entirely black glass wall at the very edge of Hardman Square. We approached with nervous caution and only when said bouncers pulled apart a galleon ship's wheel to usher us into a very dark foyer did we realise just how intimate an affair this was going to be. 

On first impression I was confused at how small the building was but was simultaneously distracted by the giant anchors, draped in flowers, hanging down from the roof and realised there’s a second floor. “This is the kind of joint that I need to be seen wandering through with a cocktail”, I thought. Said cocktails were not only reasonably priced at £7 - £10 (considering you could walk into any number of overpriced Canal Street bar and expect to be charged £7.50 for syrup-in-a-glass-masquerading-as-a-Mojito) they were abso-fucking-lutely gorgeous. I ordered a "Bambu - Baby Panda" and was treated to the cutest glass you've ever seen in your life. The restraint I had to muster just to hand it back to the waitress when I was done surely warrants a free meal. Or at the very least a free bamboo straw. As for the cocktail itself, I can only really remember it noting vanilla vodka as an ingredient but I'm pretty certain it was the spirit of life in liquid form, no joke. And the spirit of life tasted gooood. Ged ordered something with rum, I think, but who cares because he didn’t get a panda glass.

Being lead upstairs felt akin to be whisked away to a secret society; the narrow staircase was carved from dark wood and delicately lit by small lotus flowers cut out of the steps that tied in nicely with the great big blossom tree that stood proudly in the middle of the restaurant floor when we arrived at the top. It was pretty breath-taking to be honest. Once we’d taken our seats we were handed the two glasses of what I presume was sparkling rosé that Ged's friend (cheers Keebs) had ordered us from London. I say "presume" because I never actually found out what it was but as soon as I saw it was pink and fizzy I couldn't give a shit what it was, so sparkling rosé it is. 

  

So let’s talk about the food. We ordered Chicken and chilli Gau and Lobster and prawn toast for Dim sum. Ged fawned over the softness of the chicken and used his chopstick prowess to flirt with the waitress whilst I admired the crockery and tried to find the fastest way to get it in my mouth in one go. Next up was an incredibly succulent red roast baby chicken for Ged and melt-in-the-mouth lobster and prawn (get the theme here?) ginger noodles for me. The presentation was nothing short of beautiful; when I received my main and saw an entire lobster head staring at me I was delighted - sick right? - and couldn't wait to Instagram the shit out of it as the visual alternative of saying "yah yah look at me I drink sparkling wine and eat lobster, how's your Thursday?" 

The chicken was tender; the lobster was fresh and the prawns were like little creatures from heaven. My only complaint was an ever so slight lack of sauce on my noodles…but that didn’t stop me clearing my plate so much that it barely looked like I’d had a meal there in the first place.

 The cocktails and pink fizz (oh and the subsequent bottle of Pinot we ordered that I’ve only just remembered about) got us slowly drunker and drunker until I was convinced we were in the most high-tech restaurant that this city has to offer and had basically fallen in love. When I dried my hands under a neon green light I was so astounded by the atmosphere that I felt compelled to leave a note for myself. And, of course, washing your hands under the watchful eye of a gorgeous tattooed Chinese man is surely everyone's dream, no? Just mine?

  

To finish off, Ged's friend again apologised for her absence in true London city style by sending over the.most.incredible.brownie from 250 miles away. According to the waitress this dish isn't on the menu anymore so sucks to be all of you because LOOK AT IT! We offered to let her try a bite but she politely refused and said she's "not allowed", even after we drunkenly tried to force feed her and attempted to shield her from the eyes of her manager using a napkin as a decoy. Top marks to her for being great company throughout the evening. 

Even after the bill we kind of didn’t really want to leave in the end because what could have been a highly pretentious "concept" restaurant that relies on its image to sell seats actually turned out to be one of the best, most honest, dining experiences we've had. And we like to eat. The tables were dutifully waited on by a team of humble and happy staff who really believed in the brand, the food was almost under-priced for how good it was and you could see how someone’s vision had so carefully and lovingly been executed to create a truly unique atmosphere. In short: it was just really, really cool.