I’ve got the jitters. The cheese jitters. I’ve come out in a cold sweat of crème fraiche and custard. My name is Kay and I’ve been dairy free for 37 hours.
I’m generally hopeless at giving up things. Dry January was cut short at the first sniff of a party. Well, you can’t expect me to go without a Sauvignon at my niece’s second birthday.
I refuse to reject my old friend chocolate, who’s been there for me through thick and thin. (Generally not thin.)
I can’t go cold turkey on, err, cold turkey. My flirtation with vegetarianism ended in a 1am orgy of pork and pickle pies, kebab meat and self-loathing.
And despite solemn tear-stained vows over the years, I have yet to give up men.
But the no-go dairy thing I am determined to stick to. I’ve seen how cutting it out can transform your life – and I’m not just talking about losing weight. It’s been credited with clearing up eczema and rashes – Victoria Beckham reckons going dairy free sorted out her spotty skin.
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Megan Fox is among the army of hot, milk-hating celebs. Some clever science folk even reckon going dairy free could be linked to keeping cancer at bay, with studies revealing low rates of breast cancer in China, where dairy is not lapped up by the gallon.
And I guess there is something a bit unsavoury about drinking a cow’s bodily fluid. Although veggies would argue it’s equally unsavoury to eat cows’ tongues and bums. But, hey.
So I’ve weaned myself off lattes and I’m ordering my coffee black. I’m going 50/50 with coconut milk and water on my porridge. I’ve just baked a batch of banana and date dairy-free flapjack that is almost edible.
Dark chocolate is still allowed – and eggs, which many people mistakenly think falls under dairy. I know I can get calcium and protein from green leafy veg and the like.
Now if I could just get the last of the Cathedral City out of my system, I might stand a fighting chance.
By Kay Harrison, silly cow