Friday, 14 January 2011

Chicken Soup the Perfect Panacea

The Guardian newspaper included an article yesterday that was music to my mother’s ears. It was a repetition of my grandmother’s incessant nagging for me to eat, especially the likes of chicken soup, gefilte fish and strudel. The article included the line,“Can anyone make better chicken soup than a Jewish mother, and can a good one really cure colds and soothe all ills?”

Since yesterday, I have been forced onto a light soup and salad diet in anticipation of the upcoming event. Of course, the minute I am denied all of my guilty culinary pleasures, suddenly after weeks of minimal consumption, I acquire an appetite and desire a meal of substance. I prefer to regard the “upcoming event”, which I am dieting for, as the fitting of my back corset rather than the surgery. If one has to wear a medical back corset, I am of the opinion that it will be aesthetically less ghastly in a petite size.  There has been many a speculation as to of what this back corset will comprise and its effect on my semblance. Will I be transported in the tardis, alongside David Tennant, into a period drama where I will attain a minuscule waist, with the minor inconvenience of an inability to breathe, or will I mimic Frankenstein?

In accordance with doctor’s orders, my renowned grandmother’s orders and the Guardian’s suggestion, tonight I will be slowly sipping chicken soup. Between the powerful combination of surgery and soup, my shuffle will have no choice but to switch into a stroll.


  1. gpryjmachuk@googlemail.com14 January 2011 at 18:28

    I've been staring at this white box for nearly an hour - Shifting between tabs, skipping between tracks, biting the whites of my nails - to try and figure out how a gutter brain like myself, who relies far too frequently of the rhythm of punchy dialogue to express faux integrity and boyo gust, can possibly pay tribute to your words.
    Now I believe in spontaneous prose, that is to say that I write as I think or rather write as I can only think, but I do believe double guessing my thoughts or attempting to arrange them would be an insult to your, your-self. Also, I will cull the attempt at trying to paint these words with petty style (as I currently am. This, I can assure you, is because of my overwhelming fear of your personal opinion towards me and my nerves are shaking like a needle on the job). Instead I will stop bumbling over myself as if on a first date and just say it. And this, I give you a personal promise, is fact.
    You are inspiring. Beauty tears out of you with manic ferocity. Like an arable to a desert you instil something new, something terribly unseen in the wasted lands of my dawning mind. Something, colour to deserts, esquire to knights, shrieks to lovers.
    I know I said I would avoid the un-necessity of style and opt rather for substance but how can that be fair when your so damn inspirational.
    I'll be reading, as long as you keep writing.

  2. I hope only good things come from this corset business. If you are transported to the tardis, make out with the doctor for me, punch Andrew Jackson if you get the chance, and watch out for cat nurses.

  3. I'm another person who was directed here by the wonderful Mr Fry; I've just sat for the last hour and a half reading your blog from the beginning. I love your style and the way you write; you really are inspirational, not just as a writer, but as a person. I sincerely hope that your back corset brings you everything you hope for. My very best wishes to you =)

  4. I don't understand, why do you have to go on a diet to have surgery?