“Even Oliver Twist would not want seconds of that”

Home, 8pm. My husband and I are sitting in the conservatory.

“Listen to this,” he says excitedly from behind his newspaper.

“A new eating plan,” he reads, “that involves two days of fasting each week is being promoted as the key to sustained weight loss and increased longevity.”

I’m reading Wolf Hall by Hilary Mantel. “This book would be more compelling,” I say, “if the four hundred characters in it were not all called Thomas.”

“Intermittent fasting has…”

“30-second rule,” I interrupt, looking at him over the top of my specs.

“You can’t apply the 30-second rule to this topic,” he says, “it’s not sport. This article is not in the sports section. Look,” he says, jabbing at the newspaper — “lifestyle section.”

“Fair enough,” I say, putting my book down with feigned reluctance.

“Fauja Singh,” he reads, “is also known as ‘the Turbaned Tornado’. At 101, he is the world’s oldest marathon-runner…”

“That’s definitely sport,” I say, picking up Wolf Hall immediately, “Lifestyle section or no lifestyle section.”

“This 30-second rule is ridiculous,” he protests, “it’s like you’re Graham Norton and I’m one of those weirdos in the red chair…”

“The 30-second rule is crucial,” I say, “you said yourself you didn’t want to become one of those middle-aged men who trade their personalities in for a bike and then bore everyone to death with cycling stories for the rest of their lives…”

All up on his dignity now, he reads on. “Fauja is a bit of a mystery,” he says, “eating much the same thing every day — lentils, vegetables garnished with ginger… and his portions are tiny. No carb-loading for Fauja….”

“Get to the point or I’m going back to my book,” I say, “never mind the 400 Thomases.”

“Says here that some doctor tried it,” he continues, “six weeks after starting the 5:2 diet, he had a full medical. He’d lost well over a stone, his blood glucose, which had been borderline diabetic, was normal and his cholesterol levels, previously high enough to necessitate medication, were also down in the healthy range.”

“You’re thin, your cholesterol is fine and your blood glucose levels are not borderline diabetic,” I say.

“I’m doing it,” he says, “starting from tomorrow. It’s good for fitness and longevity. I’ve never done a diet before but I can do this easy. I know I can.”

Monday, 4.30pm.

Monday is not a fast day. Monday, my husband returns from work in customary fashion: eyes bright, full of dispatch and drive.

I am on the sofa, dipping an Oreo into tea. He looks pointedly at my Oreo and says, magisterially, “I’ve been reading more about the 5:2 diet. Intermittent fasting is supposed to carry all sorts of health benefits, besides weight loss.”

“Can we implement the 30-second rule for diets?” I say. He gives me a wounded look before wrestling the dog on the rug.

“Intermittent fasting,” he says, now holding the dog’s paws and staring into her eyes, “for muscle gain and longevity — that’s what we want isn’t it, Tilly? Yes Tilly, and you know I can do it, yes, you know I can.”

Tuesday 5pm.

Tuesday is a fast day. My husband returns home from work. He walks straight past me, then the dog, in an undeviating line from car to cooker, looking neither left nor right, and muttering something about a banana under his breath. My daughter follows behind him.

“What the hell is wrong with dad?” she says to me, “he’s been, like, so weird in the car. First thing he said to me was “Hurry up, I’ve only had a banana all day.”

“How are you?” I ask my husband in the kitchen.

“Fasting day,” he says, dumping a piece of white fish into one pan and emptying a bag of spinach into another. He stands wringing his hands in front of the cooker, watching both pans like an overstressed cat about to pounce.

“Not even Oliver Twist would want seconds of that,” I say, looking at the pans.

“He would if he’d only had a f*cking banana,” he snaps.