food

A Catch 22 Situation

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Catch 22

Noun:

A dilemma or difficult circumstance from which there is no escape because of mutually conflicting or dependent conditions.

And I found myself in the midst of a Catch 22 on Friday.

I had a blood test a few weeks ago and thought no more about it until I received a phone call from my GP to say that he’d like to see me as the test had shown a significant increase in cholesterol since last year. Quite a hike actually.

We had a discussion during which he bombarded me with information but the thing that I took away the most from it was when he told me that I was now 20% more likely to have a heart attack or stroke than I was this time last year. Now, I had two trains of thought about this.

  1. 20% isn’t too bad. It could be worse.
  2. Then again if the current trend continues at 20% per annum I’ll be dead in another 4 years.

And that second thought really woke me up rather. And, to be perfectly honest, I needed a bloody good wake up call and there it was.

It’s been a tough old year so far, and the previous three months, and I must hold my hand up and admit that I’ve sought a lot of help from Barefoot, Yellow Tail, McGuigan and Jam Shed. I’m not talking getting pie-eyed every night but certainly having more units per week than is thought safe by the medical profession. So I can’t help thinking that I have indeed been the architect of my own downfall as it were.

I haven’t actually had an alcoholic drink for eleven days now as I was aware that every time I stepped on the bathroom scales the needle was going in the wrong direction. The good thing is that I can’t say I miss it either so that’s a good thing.

But I did leave the health centre that morning with a grim determination that I was going to reduce that 20% figure and beat cholesterol into bloody, quivering submission. I have been prescribed statins, which will help, but I want to do it the old-fashioned way and clear those arteries out with healthy food that is low in cholesterol.

So I went home and did a bit of Googling (as one does) and found that most of the things I enjoy eating are actually plotting to assassinate me – red meat, bacon, chips, chocolate, eggs, butter etc etc. However, the foods that will prolong my existence on this Earth are things like avocados, salads, fruit and veg, olive oil, chicken without the skin and fish. All I can say is that it’s a good job that I like all of those things as well.

Being thus armed with the information I needed I started exactly how I meant to go on. I was home by half past nine as the surgery is quite literally a stone’s throw from our flat (although, I haven’t ever thrown a stone at it so I can’t vouch for the authenticity of that statement) and I was home in much less than five minutes.

Breakfast time!

I had a banana and an orange. By most people’s standards that’s not much for a man of such ample proportions to last on until lunchtime but I was so determined that I was going to change the course of my life that I was resolute. I washed the fruit down with a cup of rooibos tea which has something like 2 calories in it and is packed with anti-oxidants whilst also being naturally caffeine free. I thought I was on to a winner.

However…

In the afternoon we drove the twenty or so miles to Keighley as we needed to speak to someone at the bank about one or two things (nothing to worry about – we aren’t destitute) and we arrived at twenty past two. The bank closed at three and there was quite a queue and we began to wonder whether or not we would get served in time before it shut its doors.

I’m not good at all at standing for long periods of time and the heat in the bank was actually quite oppressive. There was no air and to be honest the whole place had a sort of stale tobacco/sweaty armpit kind of odour. I began to feel queasy.

Within a few minutes I found myself forced to sit down and by the time that a very nice lady (called Tracy) smilingly ushered us into one of the little interview rooms I was sweating from every pore, my clothes were wet from it, my hair was plastered to my scalp and my vision kept going dark. I was sure that I was about to measure my length on the floor and thoroughly embarrass myself and my lovely wife by fainting.

My blood sugar was incredibly low and that happens a lot.

An awful lot.

Fortunately, Tracy was quick to respond. She got one member of staff to bring me water and another member of staff was dispatched to Poundland (next door) to procure some Mars bars for me. He came back with a four pack of which I ate three in quick succession and downed three glasses of water.

Eventually, I began to feel a little better. But only a little. We concluded our business at the bank and then returned to the multi-storey car park, my legs shaking like a border terrier who has just seen a cat walk past its window. I was in a bad way folks. A very bad way.

Ange decided that more food was in order and so she advanced on Greggs and bought me a couple of sausage rolls. Now, I usually think of Greggs sausage rolls as a food source in the same way that I think that raw sewage is, but right there and then as I sat in the car chewing on those foul, grey-meated, grease-dripping comestibles I couldn’t have been happier with a medium sirloin steak and triple cooked chunky chips. It was just so good to get some food inside me so that the shaking would stop.

You can, therefore, no doubt see what my Catch 22 situation is…

I have to eat healthily to get my cholesterol down and I have to stuff myself with carbs and sugar when my blood sugar levels drop. The choice is either fight or faint. And I don’t know what to do.

The good news is that I have been tested for diabetes and despite being told that I am at risk of it there is no sign of me actually having it yet. Phew!

I don’t know why these episodes are so severe. I know everybody gets their energy depleted from time to time and feels weak as a result but I go from this huge big guy to trembling, sweaty, whimpering shambles in a matter of minutes. And when that happens it really is a case of either sit down or fall down.

Shoving carbs and sugar down my gullet will do my cholesterol levels no good whatsoever but lets be honest, when my blood sugar drops like that then a celery stick isn’t going to get me back on my feet again. Ergo – Catch 22.

Suggestions for my problem will be eagerly received so please do pop them in the comments section or email me at contact@blesshamhall.co.uk I look forward to hearing from you.

Incidentally, Catch 22 is the title of one of the best books ever written, by a man called Joseph Heller, and is so funny and yet so shocking at the same time that it really does fit the old adage of “couldn’t put it down.” If you haven’t read it then I strongly advise, nay urge, you to do so at the earliest available convenience.

Granny Vs “The Experts”

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It seems that every time I go on social media or Youtube or even merely surf the web for various products these days, I am inundated with adverts from so-called “experts” on how to lose weight and keep fit.

There’s dozens, possibly hundreds, of them. And every single time I go onto the internet there they are.

One expert after another espousing on how their way is the best to get fit, lose pounds and have a healthier gut. There’s Slimming World, Weightwatchers, V-Shred, Chair Yoga, Dr Grundy, Intermittent fasting, Dr Drew, ZOE, NOOM (which is actually quite good) and a whole host of others too numerous to mention.

And here’s the thing…

They can’t all be right, can they? Surely not?

I mean, for one thing they all contradict one another. One will tell you to avoid carbs like the plague whilst another will warn against the folly of doing so. One will tell you not to do intense exercise whilst another will promote physical activity. One will have Davina McCall grimacing away on it and another won’t make you scream “Oh God! Not her again!!!”

I saw one recently that said don’t eat apples or tomatoes. Two foods that I particularly enjoy and are surely beneficial to my health; and I adore tomatoes like no other food on Earth. Apparently, instead of eating Gala apples I should be eating crab apples. Really? Listen, I’m not suggesting you’re talking a load of shit there but that’s what I’ll be producing if I start eating crab apples.

All these experts claim to have tried and trusted methods to help you lose that gut and feel the best that you ever have.

Well, I know another person who lived a healthy life…

My Granny; and I’ll tell you how she did it.

My Granny didn’t follow fad diets or undertake any exercise classes or listen to advice from Tom, Dick and Harry about what she should or shouldn’t be eating.

She ate white bread (unsliced from the local baker) and brisket of beef with all the fat on it. She loved fried breakfasts, apple pies with custard and enjoyed a glass of beer now and then. She had a spoonful of sugar in her tea and regularly bought herself a bag of tuffies (that’s what they call sweets in Derbyshire) and if truth be known she had something of a sweet tooth overall.

That, by today’s standards, all sounds very unhealthy. However, what she also did was to eat plenty of fresh fruit and vegetables with every meal. She wasn’t the best cook in the world but she knew the value of eating those foods.

And I’ll tell you what else she did – she walked!

And I mean everywhere because she never learned to drive.

There were no such things as supermarkets in the little town where she lived but there were greengrocers, butchers, bakers and corner shops and several times a week she would make her way down the hill, across the common, into town and then repeat the journey home with a heavy bag of shopping; bearing in mind she was quite diminutive in stature.

And when she wasn’t doing that she was walking her Jack Russell, Patch, all over the place.

In short, she kept highly active at all times.

That’s what she did all her life and I can say with all honesty that apart from toothache, on one occasion, I can’t remember her having a days’ illness in her life. She lived to be 93 years old and right up to the end her mind was as sharp as a scalpel.

Look, it’s not for me to say what you should or shouldn’t do to get in shape. But likewise, I don’t think all those internet experts are going to help you too much either. Plus you have to pay for what they’re offering.

What I will do, perhaps, is suggest that you take a tip from Granny. Enjoy the foods you do like, but eat a ton of greens alongside and then get those pins working as much as possible.

And the best thing is, with the Granny technique you don’t need yet another app cluttering up your phone!

Win-Win!

Greenish Fingers

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It is a fairly little-known fact that I am in possession of no less than three City & Guilds qualifications in Horticulture. Or, to put it another way, I have certificates in how to grow things. I acquired them when I left school at the delicate age of 16 with absolutely no direction or inclination about what I was going to do with myself other than get drunk, smoke fags, listen to heavy metal music and yank myself off every night.

And then a kindly man at the local Jobcentre suggested that I go on a Youth Opportunity Programme at Brooksby College where I would be taught all the finer things about Horticulture and gain said certificates. Well, it was better than sitting at home listening to Black Sabbath all day (marginally) and the princely sum of £25 a week would come in handy.

And no, £25 was not a lot of money back then, even in 1982.

But I figured it was a start in life so what the hey!

And I had fun working in Brooksby’s Horticultural Department. I made some good friends and had a few humorous mishaps for myself. It was my first proper job that involved me to work 8 hours a day 5 days a week. It gave me that sense of needing to drag my lazy arse out of bed every morning and go and earn my fiver a day.

After the initial one year on the course I sadly had to leave the department and find employment at other garden-based jobs, one of which was at a stately home where I had the time of my life blasting around 4 acres of lawn on a sit on mower every Friday. And yes, there’s a small element of what I used to do in Joe Wilkie’s Blessham adventures. Fortunately, unlike Joe, my employer was a rather kindly and dotty old lady, although some of her opinions on crime prevention mirrored those of Lady Stark-Raven. A harmless old girl though.

My career in Horticulture lasted until I was about 19 when I jumped ship for the food industry and I waved goodbye to my trowel and pruning knife for pastures new and greater fiscal rewards. Maybe it was a bit daft of me to take such a swift career curve and to forsake all I had learned; I don’t know. Hindsight is a wonderful thing and I suppose, looking back, I made the wrong decision, especially when you see what a huge business gardening is these days.

I could have been the next Monty Don. Actually, if my man boobs are anything to go by I’m more Charlie Dimmock. But I digress.

Ah well. C’est la vie.

Over the years I’ve owned houses with differing levels of gardening required in them. Some with lawns and some without, some with trees and some with shrubs, some small and some not so small. The one thing that was the same was that I always enjoyed pottering about in them. Just pottering mind you, I was never a serious home gardener, despite my early leanings into that particular craft. And I now find myself at a place in life where I have a fabulous garden at home to go and sit in but someone else does all the hard work. Which is fine by me.

However…

Ange and I have very recently been given a raised bed at the local allotment. Not a huge great thing; approximately 1.5 metres across and 2 metres in length, but big enough to grow a bit of veg in. And I feel rather excited at the prospect let me tell you. The thought of munching on my own carrots, onions and cabbage really appeals to me.

And I’m hoping beyond hope that everything I learned in my salad days (pun intended) will come back to me. Will my fingers still be as vibrantly green as they were or will the passage of time have reduced them to a sickly, faded shade of baby-poo-yellow?

Time will tell.

The good thing about this raised bed is that it’s… well… raised! It stands at just under waist high to me which is perfect as I won’t be required to bend or kneel to work on it. It’s full of well worked and equally well fertilised soil and therefore won’t require a lot of physical effort to turn it. Quite the opposite in fact. It’ll be a breeze.

We’ve even invested in some hand tools and seeds. Yes, I know it’s a little late in the season for sowing but if we have a good Summer and a late Autumn we should be ok. And besides, we’ll have had the fun of trying.

Ange is just as keen to get cracking with it as I am and perhaps the best thing about the whole project is that there are benches and tables where yours truly can crash at if I find the old energy draining, which it inevitably will do.

I think the thing I’m most looking forward to is getting back to nature a little bit. To be honest, it doesn’t really matter what kind of a crop we get, I shall enjoy getting dirt under my fingernails and feeling the soil on my hands. I shall enjoy the sight of the plants, the smell of the earth, the sound of birdsong as we spend time there and, hopefully, the taste of our own organically grown veg.

All five sense catered for!

The allotment itself is in a beautiful setting with some epic views in all directions and I’m looking forward also to just spending some quiet time there with Ange, taking it all in. After all, a bed of that size isn’t going to demand too much of our time and effort so we will have the opportunity to sit and admire the scenery. And you never know, wine might be involved as well.

So I’ll let you know how it goes. Will there be root veg a plenty later in the year or will it be slim pickings? We don’t really care at this stage; we just want to get on and have a go.

And as Lynn Anderson once sang – “I never promised you a rose garden.” So it’ll have to be veg!

Watch this space.

PS – I promised I’d write a blog this week and voila!