I have a general rule in life to try and avoid anthropomorphisising my organs. I find it doesn’t go down well at medical appointments:

“Midwife: So, how’s baby doing today? Lots of movements?

Me: Oh, yes. But I’m worried about my uterus, it feels worried about getting back into shape after the birth and I think my vagina’s experiencing Pre-Traumatic Stress Disorder”

It just doesn’t work.

But if I were to set this rule to one side, I wonder what my poor pancreas must be thinking. Last week it was nestled there in my body, smugly glancing over at my beleaguered liver as it slowly puffed and panted its way through the day. Now this week it’s been smacked sideways with the bucket loads of sugar I’m dumping into my body. It must be like Black Friday in the Amazon warehouse, my islets of Langerhans pumping out insulin with the focus of a zero-hours contract worker on his final warning.

I have been so tired and low on…well, everything since losing the ready energy that alcohol gave, I’ve had to supplement my diet with a veritable confectionery cornucopia. I’m not going to freak out about this (yet) but after the weekend I may try providing a selection of more savoury snacks, a piece of fruit or maybe a rice cake. [adjusts halo]

Ha! Like that’s going to happen, I’ll deal with my newly emerging cross addiction later.

Art: Andy Hillman


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