My Kingdom for a Carb.

To kick off the New Year in a healthy fashion, top of my To Do list was to do a detox for a fortnight.

I reasoned that I would have company in my misery as my boyfriend of 3 years, J, would be joining me in my quest, that I would have expert guidance (J's from a family of naturopaths) and that after all, I'd survived an even harder detox of 10 whole weeks less than a year ago and had reaped the benefits.

Essentially, the detox consists of a Thermophase (a powder to assist detoxification) smoothie each morning and vegetables, fruit and lean grilled meat for lunch and dinner. No carbs, no sugar, no fat, no dairy, no caffeine, no alcohol. All in all, an excellent diet to re-boot my body for the coming year.

Six days in, I've had vegetable fritatta made with soy milk only, lots of Thermophase, umpteen pieces of fruit, every vegetable under the sun (or so it feels like) and plenty of plain grilled meat and chicken. I'm proud of having managed to steer completely clear of the junkier foods that would usually tempt me and I can already feel my body getting stronger and healthier.

Except.

Right now, I would sell my soul for a Triple Cheeseburger.

The Wench Speaks.

There's an older man at my place of work, who insists on giving all and sundry nicknames, the origins of which are almost impossible to untangle.


While these nicknames are a vast improvement on the usual ocker-ish nicknames that you hear all the time, I was still baffled at the one that was assigned to me - Wench.

To me the word always conjured up images of a buxom lady of the night. Buxom, at least, is something I am most definitely not.

So I questioned this gentleman (without mentioning the words "busty" or "prostitute") about the reasoning behind my nickname. His answer was succinct:

"Well, you're a redhead."


But of course.

Over the course of my life so far I've met redhead-haters, redhead-lovers, those who mention how in medieval times I'd have been burned as witch, people who've never seen the colour before and were startled by it, witless cretins who are just interested in enquiring if "the rug matches the carpet" - but only occasionally, someone who is totally neutral about my hair colour.

Out of curiosity I tried dyeing my hair on my 27th birthday to a dark brunette, and for the weeks until I gave it up and dyed it red again, I just didn't feel like myself - and not only because I'd not thought to get my eyebrows dyed at the same time (red eyebrows + dark hair is never really a good look on anyone, is it?) There was a stranger in the mirror.


So while some people might exhort me to speak sternly with the gentleman at my work for giving me the "wench" nickname, I'll take it and make it my own.

Redheaded Wench. Now making brain space for more important things (like where I left my car at ShoppingTown) by putting all my odd musings down here.

Ciao for now!