Every year, usually around January, I realize that there is a wide gap between who I am and who I want to be. Nowhere is this more evident than in my grocery shopping. Like most people I’m rather fond of junk food. One of the semi-cheap thrills of moving to London was discovering a whole new junk food alphabet – from Aero bars to Buttons all the way down to Wispa and Yorkie bars. For a posh night in I break out the Kettle Chips with cracked black pepper.. which is essentially junk food at its Sunday best.

Yet if you see me at a Sainsbury’s on the weekend, it’s like I’m shopping for a different person. The kind of person who eats crunchy carrots and radishes, breakfasts on organic oatmeal and drinks chamomile tea. Every Sunday afternoon is pretty much an exercise in optimism – with purchases of what feels like eight kilos of fresh fruit, muesli bars, authentic pesto from an authentic Italian man at the market, non-fat non-saturated no calorie yoghurt (i.e. white coloured water) and juice enough for your average kindergarten class.

Come Wednesday evening though and I can usually be found in front of the television munching nachos at 1 am while a disapproving pile of oranges watches over me.